Ours is the Winter
by doubletaurus
Summary: Season 5-8 reboot, canon-divergent AU where Stannis doesn't take a weird turn to filicide, and is able to recover from the setbacks on the march to Winterfell. Sansa's story is the same up to her escape from Winterfell with Theon, unfortunately, but it's not Brienne who saves her. (WHO COULD IT BE?) (Orig posted on Ao3.)
1. The Test

Stannis squinted into the blustery snow, overlooking the war camp and doing some rudimentary calculations. Taking Winterfell was always going to be a risk – a calculated risk, but a risk nonetheless – without having gained broader support from the North before marching down the King's Road and attempting to secure it after the Boltons had been eliminated. At this point, though, he was forced to reckon that it would be foolhardy to continue on - mercenaries simply couldn't be counted on if they were both cold and as hungry as they'd be with the supplies lost from the Bolton bastard's sabotage, and he wasn't going to lose what was left of his own loyal men in a pursuit of sheer folly. The odds of a successful siege at this point were slim to none, and a re-evaluation was in order. He mulled their options as he absently, methodically sharpened his sword.

"Your Grace." Stannis nodded in acknowledgment of Davos' arrival, who wore a look on his face that indicated he had reached a similar conclusion after surveying the scene. "Unless there's a thaw, we can't press forward to Winterfell and we don't have enough food to get us back to Castle Black."

"I know." Stannis stood, ground his teeth. "It'll be tight – but I think we'll make it back to Castle Black, and hopefully the Watch will welcome us as reinforcements in the meantime. They can teach us their winter hunting skills, perhaps, so we're not quite a burden on their stores. Have the dead horses butchered for meat, then, and make preparations to return to the Wall."

Relief spread across Davos' face. "Yes, Your Grace, right away, Your Grace."

"You'll head back with Princess Shireen ahead of the army. Get her back to the shelter of a castle as quickly as possible."

"Yes, sir."

Stannis began to issue another order, but a screech broke out across the camp. Turning and searching through the squalls, they could make out the form of Shireen, being dragged by two infantry men towards a pyre, followed by Melisandre and Selyse. "What in the gods –" Davos started, before breaking into a run across the camp. His deep-seated distrust of Melisandre and her agenda had him make sense of the scene a little faster than Stannis, but the king made up the ground in a hurry.

"Melisandre!" He barked, planting himself in front of the two men. "What's the meaning of this?"

Selyse answered instead, eyes bright and fevered. "The Lord of Light requires sacrifice! It has been seen!"

"I beg your ever-loving pardon, m'lady, but what does that mean, exactly?" Davos planted himself in front of the infantry men, while eyeing the Red Woman accusingly.

"The girl," Melisandre replied coolly, but with a fanatical glint in her eye. "These storms and this sabotage are a test, a test of our faith. If we do not act, we will starve here. We must sacrifice to save this campaign and save Your Grace's troops - I have seen it in the flames."

Stannis stared steadily at the Red Woman. "Sacrifice what, exactly?"

"The blood of kings, Your Grace. The ultimate personal sacrifice, in the Lord of Light's name. We will cleanse her with his fire."

Horrified, Davos made to grab for Shireen - "Are you mad, woman?" - before Stannis held up a hand. Davos froze, staring at his king, uncertain.

"This is a test, Melisandre? From your Lord?"

"Yes, Your Grace." She smiled beatifically, despite the horror of the situation, turning Davos' stomach as a crowd around them grew. "We must make this sacrifice, your sacrifice in his name. He will accept this token of our faith, my Lord, and he lead us from this darkness. It is the only way."

Stannis nodded slowly, briefly cut his eyes to his wife. "Selyse?"

"It was in the fire, my lord. I may not have given you a son, but this daughter - this daughter can save us all."

Shireen whimpered at least words from her mother, while Stannis stared into his wife's face for a few quiet beats. Then his mouth flattened into a firm line and he nodded to himself. Davos couldn't hold back any longer. He knocked the man closest to him and pulled Shireen close to him. This wasn't going to happen, even if Stannis –

Stannis broke his silence. "This is a test. And I must pass it." He flicked his eyes at Davos. "The Princess Shireen is my daughter, my blood. Take her to the safety of her quarters, and do not leave her side." Davos nodded, circling a protective arm around Shireen as Selyse screeched incoherently and Melisandre protested, but instantly found themselves restrained by members of Stannis' Kingsguard at a quick signal from Davos. Stannis turned his attention back to the two women and cut off their protests with a hand gesture. "No true Lord of Light would require the sacrifice of an innocent girl. No true Lord of Light would have a man kill his own daughter for his own gain. Either the Lord of Light is a false God, or you bear false witness. Which is it?"

Stannis stared down Melisandre, and she stared back, and Davos could almost see the wheels turning. "Neither, your Grace."

"Neither."

"No, Your Grace – it, it was a test, a test from R'hllor in this time of darkness and strife... but you have passed. R'hllor is the one true god, the god of fire and light and life, and today you chose a path of life, not darkness. Truly, you are the One True King, the leader we all deserve, wise and just." Davos nearly snorted – whatever agenda that woman was pushing, she knew she had obviously crossed a line by threatening Shireen in any way, and one that Stannis would not soon forget - if ever.

"As you say, Melisandre. I am glad to have passed the Lord of Light's test. Perhaps he will soon see to bless us and deliver us from our current darkness, but I think we'll rely on our good sense in the meantime." Melisandre curtsied slowly, while Selyse moaned, senseless, in the captive grip of the Kingsguard. Stannis eyed both her and some of Melisandre's wild-eyed followers, lurking behind the confrontation, and raised his voice in clear and measured tones. "The Princess Shireen is not to be touched, and anyone who attempts her harm will meet my blade. Our limited food stores have no rations for those who harm children. If you want to be delivered from this darkness, pray harder." With that, Stannis stomped towards the tents, flanking Shireen on her other side, escorting her with Davos towards the girl's quarters.

They were nearly there when they heard a chorus of shouts and turned to see Selyse fling herself upon the open flames of a bonfire, screaming.


	2. Options

Stannis rubbed his forehead and reviewed his maps of the area surrounding Winterfell. Despite the sudden weather shift in their favour hours after Selyse's mad dash into the flames, they weren't in the clear just yet. If Roose Bolton was man enough to meet him on the battlefield, odds were they'd prevail, but in case of a siege at the dawn of winter, the odds tilted back against them with the strained state of their stores. They'd bolstered more rations at a village both friendly to their cause and grateful for his coin, but surely not enough to starve the usurpers out.

He ground his teeth, pushing back from the table. Roose Bolton was a cold, calculating son of a bitch. He either needed to locate more supplies, or come up with an alternate plan to lure Bolton out of his hold. Some kind of subterfuge to take Winterfell without an army at all, from inside? He scowled. It wasn't his preferred style; he preferred the honour of a battlefield. He also didn't want to attack Winterfell in any way that weakened the integrity of the structure; it would be too important a hold against the terrors north of the Wall.

He decided to go for a walk, to think, and perhaps check in on Shireen again. She and her mother had never been close, and she'd been holding up reasonably well under the circumstance - and Davos was keeping close watch. Still, he should stop by -

A disturbance outside his cottage drew his attention before a knock sounded, Davos at the door: "Your Grace! Prisoners!"

He bade them enter and two people – one a stocky, dark haired lad, and one glowering blond giantess in full armour – were escorted in by two of his soldiers, hands bound, and pushed to the ground in front of him. Always at hand, Davos followed behind them while a knight crisply reported. "Your Grace! We found these two lurking around the outer grounds of Winterfell on our reconnaissance mission. They refused to answer questions, and when she recognized our armour, the woman drew her sword."

Stannis raised a brow. "Did she now?" The woman glared up at him defiantly, and he noted her own expensive, well-made attire, and the confiscated sword with a Lannister lion upon the pommel. "What are you then, a Lannister spy? Or loaned out for some purpose to Roose Bolton?"

"Hardly," the woman spat, quite literally, at his feet.

Davos raised a mild brow. "My lady, you are speaking to Stannis Baratheon, the One True King –"

"I know who he is," she interrupted. "I saw his face when he murdered his brother."

Stannis blinked, but refused her the satisfaction of a reaction. "I was quite a ways away when Renly met his end."

The woman snarled. "I am Brienne of Tarth, former Kingsguard to King Renly Baratheon, and I watched a shadow with your face take his life. Be forewarned, Kinslayer: I am solemnly sworn to mete out justice in his name."

She saw what, now? Stannis cut a glance towards Davos, who looked away in discomfort. Stannis had heard this Brienne woman had killed Renly herself, while he'd readied the troops for his dawn attack. At the time, he'd merely appreciated the timing of whatever internal drama had averted having to rout his own men and wasting resources better reserved for the campaign on King's Landing. Had Melisandre intervened directly? "The word from the Storm's End men upon joining my cause was that you had murdered Renly, Lady Brienne."

The blond woman scoffed. "I saw what I saw; you will not escape justice for your blood magic murder, Baratheon."

"My lady, no matter what you saw, it was not Stannis Baratheon who assassinated his brother." Davos interjected, sliding his eyes to Stannis briefly, a promise to speak later. The guilty flash in his Hand's eyes confirmed it - thank god he'd resisted the witch's influence before yet another kinslaying violation. He'd have to have her watched far more closely.

Brienne, however, narrowed her eyes, and repeated. "I know what I saw." Her young squire looked nervous and furtively looked between her defiant face and the face of the king.

"Very well then." His time was hardly well-spent arguing the point with a woman so clearly taken in by Renly's considerable, but duplicitous charms. "So you've come north to do your duty and avenge him then?"

"No. I am here in duty, but for an oath sworn to another."

"Another?"

She tilted her chin proudly. "Lady Catelyn Stark."

Stannis considered her, cocked a brow. "Lady Catelyn is as dead as Renly."

Brienne glowered. "Yes, I am quite aware. Before her death, Lady Catelyn foreswore me to find and safeguard her lady daughters."

Stannis and Davos both straightened, then, interested. "Daughters?"

"Yes. Sansa and Arya Stark. I was entrusted by Lady Catelyn to trade Jaime Lannister at Kings Landing in exchange for their safe return."

Stannis quirked an eyebrow her lion-tipped sword again. "Were you?"

Lady Brienne flushed through her resentment. "The Bolton betrayal of House Stark complicated the successful fulfillment of my oath, yes. But I am still bound by duty to find and protect Lady Catelyn's daughters."

"And you believe yourself to be doing this lurking in the woods surrounding Winterfell."

"Yes, Lady Sansa Stark is at Winterfell."

Stannis stood. "You're sure of this?" He shared a look with Davos. Jon Snow had not mentioned such a thing; if he'd known, Stannis imagined the young man would have thrown the Lord Commander's title back at the Night Watch and ridden south ahead of him. Lady Sansa, if he recalled, had been held captive in King's Landing as a political prisoner and remained betrothed to that vicious little incest bastard, and had by all accounts disappeared after Joffrey's assassination. Whispers had swirled as to her part in the scheme, but this is the first he'd heard of a sighting of her since his bastard nephew had met his grisly end. Arya Stark had disappeared after her father's beheading, and was widely presumed dead at this point – what girl of her age could have survived on her own? He wasn't sure how Lady Brienne was supposed to trade for her as well, though perhaps the Starks had been given different information than he.

"Yes, I'm quite sure," Brienne gritted. "I found her on the King's Road under the protection of Lord Baelish and the Vale, headed north to marry her off to Roose Bolton's bastard."

At this, Stannis began to pace. Godsdamned Littlefinger. The tale of Baelish's foolhardy duel with Brandon Stark over his misguided preoccupation with young Catelyn Tully was well-known. Stannis had only met Lady Sansa once, as a very young girl, but he remembered her to be an uncommonly pretty child, heavily favouring her mother with bright copper hair, quiet and reserved amongst the otherwise wild, brawling pack of Ned's offspring. He'd had the misfortune of meeting Baelish on a number of occasions in the capital, on the other hand; he found him an oily and untrustworthy man who gave off such a distinct aura of licentiousness Stannis found himself watching like a hawk when ladies were present. How many years had Sansa now? 17? She was a few years older than Shireen, he thought. Stannis saw in his mind's eye a tiny redheaded girl in a fluffy fur cloak, shyly practicing her curtsey under her mother's supervision. Her face turned to Shireen's, and he felt sick.

And being ensnared by Baelish was bad enough for Lady Sansa, but if she was now left at the mercy of the Boltons... "Married. They're wed?"

Brienne replied, stiff. "If not yet, very soon. I was camped outside the castle to aid her if need be. The Boltons are a vicious people, and I am sure no marriage to them will be a safe or happy one."

Yes. Gods, the atrocities nobles visited upon their daughters in the course of the Game. Ned Stark had lost his head and his daughter had been left without protection and passed among the hands of her enemies. What had Stannis been thinking, bringing Shireen so close to the cruelty of the Boltons? He needed her safely away - gods forbid if Melisandre was right, and he was now due to meet a similar fate by refusing R'hllor's sacrifice. Abruptly, he signalled the guards. "Thank you for this information, Lady Brienne, you and your squire will be taken to a cell – that is, I presume you refuse to bend the knee?"

She lifted her chin. "I do."

"Very well; my treacherous brother hardly deserved such devotion, but that's your choice to make. I'm not sure I should send you to serve at the Wall, nor am I sure they'd accept you. I'll decide your fate at a later time." He raised a hand, dismissing her glowering countenance, and the nervous squire as well.

Davos waited until the door was closed. "Well, that changes things a good deal. A trueborn Stark."

"Indeed."

"What are your thoughts?

"I have many." Stannis began to pace. "If Lady Brienne's to be believed, Bolton is clearly trying to secure the North long-term; likely, he's meeting with the same kind of resistance I got from the likes of Lyanna Mormont, if not worse, for betraying House Stark. I'm surprised he didn't try to marry the Stark girl himself, instead of matching her to a bastard son. On the other hand, I can't imagine his Lannister allies would be happy to hear about this."

"I think I heard that Roose married a Frey shortly before the Red Wedding, so he's not at liberty to do so - at least not without some bloodshed and alienating Walder. If he legitimizes the boy – if he hasn't already - than his heir has married a Stark. That may go a long way with Northerners."

Stannis grimaced. "Knowing Bolton, being married to his son might not spare the girl from his attentions. What do we know about the boy?"

"Not much. Likes to hunt, like most Boltons, I think."

"Well.' Stannis stared into the fire. "We need to know more. And we obviously have to try to extract the girl before she's wed."

"We do?"

"Yes. Rescuing Lady Sansa has strategic value; with Jon Snow's refusal to accept legitimacy, Sansa Stark is the sole legitimate heir to Winterfell. If she declares for me, the North will follow –" his lips twisted with dark humour, thinking again of little Lady Mormont's terse missive – "and we'll have the troops and Northern expertise needed to succeed in a campaign against Winterfell. But moreover, I am duty-bound to Ned Stark; regardless of his friendship with Robert, Lord Stark lost his head exposing the Lannister treachery and supporting my claim to the Throne. His daughter was left to the mercy of our enemies for it. The Young Wolf might have declared independence against the South in the fallout, but that's hardly the fault of Lady Sansa, and we can't leave her with a house that flays their enemies. It would be unconscionable – they'll murder her as soon as she produces an heir.

"Which brings me to Shireen – I'm entrusting you to return her to Castle Black, immediately. I was stupid thinking she'd be safest with me, that is foolhardy – I will not have her fall into Bolton hands should anything happen to me." Davos nodded, serious. "Take the Red Woman with you, and contain her at Castle Black. Take only men who follow the old gods. I don't want her here anymore."

**Chapter End Notes**

_Yeah, yeah, I'm absolving Stannis of Renly's murder. It's my party and I'll fix what I want to._


	3. Frostheat

Stannis rode through the woods towards Winterfell with a team of seven soldiers, already missing Davos' company. He, Shireen, and Melisandre had left for Castle Black with a small cadre of men; the rest of his army was packing up and preparing to move, either back to Castle Black or towards Winterfell, depending on how this latest reconnaissance mission went. They were approaching the north of Winterfell; he'd decided his best chance was a small specially-chosen team who might approach the castle under guise, to look for or inquire about Sansa Stark and take stock whatever resources Bolton hid behind the walls. He also personally wanted to get a lay of the land to better prepare for the eventual battle to come; it had been some time since he had visited Winterfell, and knowing the terrain could be key to success.

Frowning, he slowed his destrier, motioned for everyone to slow to a halt, then silently signalling them to retreat to shelter in the brush. What was that noise? Hounds?

A company of men approached in the middle distance, appearing from the trees surrounded by snarling, threatening dogs. Hungry hunting dogs. The Boltons liked to hunt.

Suddenly, a thin, straggly man appeared out of nowhere - under the stump of a fallen tree? – and appeared to surrender. "Where's Lady Bolton?" Stannis heard the head of the company demand, voice carrying over the snow.

"Dead!" the man responded.

A sneer. "Liar." The dogs began to growl.

"She hurt herself in the fall from the ramparts; I left her to die."

The dogs began to howl in earnest, and pulled free past the man to race to the hollow of that tree, and Stannis realized with a start there was a figure cowering there.

He didn't know if it was Roose's Frey girl or Sansa Stark, but it seemed an opportune moment to take out some Boltons. He considered the dogs – hunting animals could be useful, but they seemed vicious beasts, and he didn't trust they'd accept new masters.

"Follow me – kill every man in a helmet, and the dogs as well." He drew Lightbringer, spurred his destrier into action, leading the charge through the brush directly towards the circle of hunters at the tree.

The skirmish didn't take long - he took the head of their leader on his first pass, and another two on his circle back. His men took care of the rest, and raising his mount onto his hind legs, the dogs met a quick fate. The thin, straggly man even picked up a sword from a fallen Bolton, and took out the last of the enemy, seemingly amazed at his own ability to do so.

Stannis circled the bodies to ensure all were dead. "Strip them of their clothing and weapons and pack them up; they may come in handy if we need to enter Winterfell covertly. Leave their remains for the animals." He considered the dead dogs. He was a practical man, and beggars couldn't be choosers, in winter. "Truss the dogs to bring back to camp as well, perhaps the meat will be useful, as bait or otherwise." His men nodded, and got to work. He dismounted, eyeing the thin man, who reflexively dropped the sword he was carrying. who seemed stunned to silence. and sheathed his sword. "Come out, my lady" he called over to the woman cowering in the hull. "The threat is gone."

The figure hesitated for a long beat, then slowly stepped out of the dark into the cool gloom of the clearing. Bright hair, though in complete disarray. A pale, blotchy face, scratched, with hollow eyes. She moved stiffly, from pain or cold he could not tell, but she was tall and proud, and appeared to be trying to gather her self-possession despite the tears freezing on her face. Her eyes met hers, and his suspicions were confirmed: Tully blue.

"Lady Sansa." There was no denying it; she was the image of a young Catelyn Tully, despite her bedraggled state.

"You have the advantage of me, my lord." Her voice wavered, and he noted her hand was wrapped around a knife at her side.

Of course – they carried no banners. He was so used to Davos introducing him, that it took him a moment to respond. "Stannis Baratheon. The One True King of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Stannis Baratheon," she echoed distantly, keeping the knife in her hand. "I thought you weren't coming."

"My lady?"

"I was told you were expected to take Winterfell. But Ramsey boasted that he'd sabotaged you."

Stannis smirked, pulling his mouth to one side. "Aye, he tried." When she didn't respond, he continued. "Lady Sansa, my army was approaching Winterfell when we were told that you had been given to the Boltons. We were coming to investigate, but did not expect to find you here in the woods." She did not respond, watching his men do their work. "Did I hear these men refer to you as Lady Bolton?"

"Yes."

"So I did not arrive in time to prevent your marriage to the Bolton bastard."

At that, she met his eyes, cold. "No. You did not."

Stannis ground his teeth. Damned it all; too late. Jumping from the parapets and running through the forest did not indicate she'd left a pleasant marriage, but her honour demanded he at least ask. "Do you wish to be returned to your lord husband?"

Sansa replied evenly, staring him directly in the eye. "I will die before I return to Ramsey Bolton, Your Grace." Her hold on the knife shifted.

Ah, he thought. He pressed his lips together, nodded, and attempted a gentle (for him, at least) tone. "Then I offer to return you to your brother, Lady Stark, at Castle Black."

"Jon?"

"Yes. Jon Snow is now Lord Commander of the Night Watch, and you will be well-hosted there until my forces are able to take Winterfell."

Sansa eyed him, wary, as if trying to puzzle him out. She watched his men again, efficiently packing their horses with their spoils, examining their Baratheon armour, their quiet patience as their lord addressed her. She nodded slowly, returned her knife to a fold in her dress. "Yes, Your Grace. I would very much like to be returned to my brother."

He nodded brusquely, the matter settled. "Now who's this?" he asked, turning to her companion, who shrank bank as if he'd be hoping he'd been forgotten.

"The-the-theon. Theon Greyjoy," the man stuttered out.

Stannis raised his brows and sent a questioning look at Sansa. "Greyjoy? The fostered Greyjoy who betrayed the Young Wolf and killed your brothers?"

"Yes, " she responded. "Though he claims he did not kill my brothers, but children from the village."

Stannis examined the man, who managed somehow to give off the distinct impression of a worm. "Murdering children is a crime even if they are not Starks, Greyjoy, as is treason."

Sansa added softly, "He did also help me escape. I would not have made it this far without him."

"Even so. Good does not erase bad. But I will decide his fate later; we need to return to camp. Choose a mount, Greyjoy – Errol, bind his hands." He turned back to Sansa. "Can my men help you mount one of the Bolton horses, Lady Stark?" Sansa nodded and began a path towards the mounts but stopped after a step, wincing. "Lady Sansa?"

"I - I'm sorry Your Grace, I don't mean to delay you. But we were forced to cross the river to escape the hounds, and my skirts, my boots have frozen. I'm not sure if I can ride as I would otherwise."

Concerned, Stannis took a closer look. Indeed, lower half of Sansa's clothes appeared frozen, moving in one solid mass, and he could imagine the state of her boots. He swore ripely – a man of war knew how important it was to keep one's feet dry, and depending on how long she'd been out of the water, she could lose toes, if not a foot. "Sit down!" he barked. "Errol! I need dry stockings. And do any of those dead men have small feet? Two saddlebags, then." He briskly herded Sansa over to a fallen tree and set her down. "Your feet," he ordered, and lifted the wall of stiff, frozen material to access her boots. Ice had crusted and frozen the laces, though they were finely made Northern boots, and may have protected her feet from the worst of it.

He managed to wrench the first boot off, and examined the damage. Cold, stiff, but not too far gone. Parts of her toes were indeed waxy and frozen, he noted grimly, but not showing signs of blistering. "Not too bad milady, but we can't wait to treat it fully here. I'll warm and dry them with my hands, but then we'll have to make do with dry stockings and saddlebags until we have to get back to camp." He repeated the process with the other foot and then removed his gloves to take both of her small feet in his hands, using his body warmth to warm them as his cloak sheltered their exposed skin from worst of the elements. He looked up at her small noise of distress. "You're a lady of the north, I presume you understand the treatment for frostheat."

"Y-y-es, of course. It's just… I've never received the treatment myself. And I suppose I may be overwhelmed with the events of the day." Sansa replied, blinking and coming back to herself.

"Naturally. Errol, stockings?" He called over his shoulder. "And I don't suppose you found anything that could adequately replace a lady's skirts?"

"We could perhaps fashion something with a couple of the Bolton's cloaks, milord, but I'm not sure how we'd be able to fasten it in a way that would last the trip even back to camp, Your Grace. They may be of better use as blankets of some sort."

Stannis ground his teeth, checked in on Sansa's feet, which seemed to have warmed considerably. "Saddlebags?"

"Yes, Your Grace, here with the stockings."

Stannis nodded to accept them next to Sansa and indicated that Errol should take Sansa's frozen items to carry to camp, before he stopped to evaluate their options for travel. Frozen solid skirts and saddlebagged feet did not precisely allow for easy solo riding; she was going to have to ride with someone else. He eyed his men before sighing inwardly. There was no real option – he was not going to have a highborn lady ride back in the arms of just any of his men. Besides, his destrier was the largest, and most able to carry the extra weight without slowing their progress. He scowled at the very silly, fanciful image that flitted though his mind, of a handsome knight carrying a young, fair maiden, fresh from rescue. He was going to feel absolutely ridiculous, but there was to be no avoiding it. Thank the Gods that Davos wasn't there to see, and rib him about it.

Lady Sansa was watching her feet in his hands quietly, and he didn't like how very slim and fragile she seemed at that moment. He was a hard man, who often broke fragile things. He cleared his throat. "How are they feeling, Lady Stark?"

"Much better, Your Grace."

"It's better not to get them too warm before we can stabilize them. I'll send a man ahead to get water warmed at the camp to finish treatment there. Put the stockings on, and we'll protect them against the wind with the saddlebags." He efficiently covered her feet and secured the bags, looping them to her inner skirts, and stood, offering an arm to help with her awkward predicament. Lady Sansa tentatively took it, and carefully rose. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"Unfortunately, you can't ride alone like this, so you'll ride with me. It won't be comfortable for either of us, but I can't think of a better option that will get us back to camp in as good time." Sansa paused, but nodded. He swallowed, strangely nervous. "Don't worry; you should be fine by the time we leave for Castle Black and will ride alone."

He walked her over to his mount, barking for two of the Bolton cloaks to be brought. Settling quickly in his saddle, he reached down to pull Sansa – tall, but slim – up and sideways across his lap, feeling (as predicted) perfectly ridiculous. By the gods above, he was not fit for the heroic role of handsome, romantic prince.

He focussed on practicalities, draping one cloak across her lap and down her legs to give her another layer of warmth, and another over her shoulders, before shaking out his own cloak to surround the both of them. "Tolerable?"

She cleared her throat, her blue eyes firmly cast to the ground ahead of her. "Yes, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace."

Excellent. As long as she felt as awkward as he did. He glanced over to ensure that Theon was mounted, bound and that some measures had been taken with his feet as well – men of the Night's Watch should at least try to arrive with their toes intact, he thought, but wasn't overly concerned with the health of a murderous turncoat like Greyjoy.

He signalled to his mount it was time to move, and Sansa shifted with the movement. Automatically, he shifted his grip to anchor her with one arm, then coughed a little. The only way to get through this was to aggressively pretend none of it was happening. "Alright men, let's head out."


	4. Perfectly Pragmatic and Practical

Sansa fought to keep her eyes open against the heavy pull of exhaustion, watching the forest in a surreal haze. Between the cold and the draining terror of her escape, every part of her yearned to succumb to slumber, but she fought against the pull. She might be safe now, but if her time in King's Landing, the Eyrie, and a Bolton-held Winterfell had taught her anything, it was that the moment you feel safe is likely the moment you're most at risk.

Look at you now, dramatically rescued and embraced in the arms of a king, gallantly carried to safety, she mused to herself, mockingly. Rather the stuff of her old daydreams, and wasted on the girl she was now. And Stannis Baratheon was no vision of gallant knight. Her thoughts flashed back to handsome, charming Jaime Lannister, smiling with smug confidence astride his mount, and his golden… nephew Joffrey, whom she'd once dreamily expected to grow to cut a similar figure. By the gods, what a fool she'd been.

Stannis Baratheon, on the other hand, was obviously a hard man, a serious one; the lines on his face indicated he was far more inclined to frowns and scowls then smiles. But his gaze was solid, reassuring, unwaveringly intense; he stood proud and tall, perfectly assured of his command. He had routed Bolton's men almost effortlessly, the speed with which she'd been saved from a pack of snarling hounds at her throat incredibly disorienting. Stannis' men were calm, disciplined, and followed his orders instantly, which she also found reassuring. Joffrey's men had tended towards fear or ambivalent tolerance towards him, while a few had outright delighted in his acts of cruelty. The Bolton men, similarly, were of an even baser, colder nature; it was hardly surprising of a House that displayed flayed men on their banner fostered support from a certain kind of man. Even the knights Littlefinger had marshalled for the trip north had affected the dutiful, obedient but ultimately disinterested air of sell-swords, nothing approaching the clear respect Stannis' men held for him.

His manner towards her had been similarly reassuring. He'd neither employed the false barracuda-smiles and deceptively courtly manners as preferred by the Lannisters and the lords and ladies of the capital, nor the quiet, predatory menace of the Boltons. Nor did he elicit the tension and awareness that Baelish's solicitous, overfamiliar purr and appreciative eyes roused in her. His manner was refreshingly straightforward and free of manipulation. Arguably, Stannis Baratheon had encroached upon her person as much as Baelish had – raising her skirts, pulling her into his lap – but it felt… different. Her instinctive alarm had banked nearly as quickly as it was aroused when his men hadn't winked, smirked or otherwise batted an eye when Stannis had lifted her skirts to care for her feet. It quickly became apparent he'd was focussed solely on pragmatic emergency frostheat care - and his men had not expected anything else but that.

More disconcerting, if she was going to be honest, had been her own reaction. If you'd asked her even an hour prior to her encounter with the king, Sansa would have grimly declared that she would prefer a man never to touch her intimately ever again. But mere moments into the process of warming of her feet with body heat, she'd felt safe, even … comforted. There'd been no threat or agenda in Stannis' touch, and his hands had been large and startlingly warm, though calloused. Perhaps it was the state of her poor ill-treated feet, but the overall effect had felt soothing, much like warming herself by a fire.

Even now, pressed against the hard steel of Stannis' chest armour, she felt warmer than she thought she could ever be while still encased in her wet clothing, and again – she imagined being in a similar situation with Littlefinger, and knew instinctually that he would definitely have tried to take liberties with her; whispered secrets too close to her ear, not-so-accidental brushes with his hands. Stannis, on the other hand, was apparently doing his level best to pretend she was a rolled rug tossed across his lap. He'd not bothered to speak to her since their departure; he clearly felt that in any way acknowledging the forced intimacy of their situation was beneath their dignity. Instead, his watchful hawk eyes scoured the road ahead and the woods alongside, alert to any possible attack.

It was a little bewildering, she allowed herself to muse, rocking with the motion of the horse and staring blindly into the woods, that the man considered himself both King of Westeros and not above taking such care of her as he had. The idea of Joffrey attending to her injured feet in such a way was outright laughable. She even had trouble picturing King Robert handling such a task himself. But Stannis Baratheon was a lifelong military man, a general, she reminded herself. Her father had spoken highly of him at least once, praising Stannis as the kind of man who would never ask of his men something he wasn't willing to do himself.

Her father. With a small start, she realized that Stannis reminded her, in many ways, of her father. Oh, there were clear differences – Stannis carried himself with a confident, swaggering authority that she felt her father never truly grew into after he'd inherited his title. Stannis was also a shade more brusque and abrupt than Ned, she decided, and while she imagined her father would have felt similarly awkward in this kind of forced closeness with a strange woman, she felt he would have been more comfortable engaging in conversation than remaining coolly silent throughout it. But her father had also been a serious, frowny type of man, one who took his duties and responsibilities to heart. He treated his men well, while tolerating no foolishness or cruelty, and he was well-respected in return. And he would have cared for someone's injured feet himself, she was quite sure. For all his reputation as a cold, unlikeable grouch, she thought rather wistfully, Stannis Baratheon was first person she'd met since leaving her childhood and the North that felt like someone from home.

Whether it was this revelation, or simply her endurance finally reaching its limit, Sansa felt herself begin to give way to sleep. Unconsciously, she moved her arm from the armour of Stannis' chest and angled herself under his arm. From that position, her cheek nestled into the soft fur lining the neck of his cape, and her eyes drifted shut. There was no safety in this world, she now knew. But this was probably the closest she'd get for quite a while.

* * *

Oh, dear gods above. Was she _nuzzling_ him?

No, that was a foolish thought. Stannis chanced a glance down, and saw that the girl had finally drifted off to sleep. Good, that was for the best, though the overall effect, after she'd shifted angles, was rather… snuggly. He adjusted his grip, switching his reins to the other hand, to better support her with the arm she'd leaned into. She needed her rest. Indeed, he'd refrained from speaking to her in the hopes that she would do so, and there was also the fact that if he'd spent the better part of the day hunted down by a pack of mad dogs, he wouldn't be in any kind of mood to engage in needless prattle either. There'd be plenty of time to talk once she'd been fully tended to, fed, and had a good night's sleep.

He mulled over his list of priorities once getting back to camp. Berda from the camp followers could be conscripted to care for Lady Sansa for the night; she'd come from Storm's End area and had once served in the kitchens there, which made her more used to caring for a highborn lady than any of the women he knew from Dragonstone lands. He needed to make decisions about the Tarth woman and her squire, as well as the Greyjoy traitor. And then he needed to decide whether to move the entire army north again, or leave the bulk of them behind to make a more permanent camp and reserve their energies for the battle now sure to come. He'd move faster without them as well, though he was nervous about further saboteur raids from the Bolton boy. Perhaps if they found a more sheltered and secluded spot that gave them greater cover or controlled access. Lady Stark knew the area better than he; perhaps she'd have some ideas.

They weren't too far out from his troops, he noted. He turned his head to the left, didn't see Errol, and shifted to the right – swallowing awkwardly when the rough of his scruffy jaw brushed the soft skin of Lady Stark's temple. He jerked in summons, and Errol pulled up alongside. "Your Grace?"

"Run ahead to camp, locate Berda, and arrange for accommodations for Lady Stark." He spoke in low tones. "We'll need a large bowl or bucket of warmed water brought to her tent immediately, bed linens and furs, and a something suitable for night clothing while Lady Stark's own clothing is adequately cleaned and dried. Find two good men to guard the tent, and inform Berda that she'll be responsible for Lady Stark's care until we break camp."

"Yes, Your Grace." Errol kicked his horse into a rolling canter and followed orders without another word. Good boy, that Errol.

Sansa made a small noise and shifted in his lap, breathing into his neck, and to his absolute chagrin, a bolt of energy shivered down his spine and awakened him in a most humiliating way. Lords above, had his time with the witch, after years of near-celibacy, completely reduced him to the state of a randy youth, fully aroused by the slightest provocation of a redhead young enough to be his daughter? Indulging in carnal feast after a long famine had not been ultimately wise, it appeared. He burned with his embarrassment, shifting uncomfortably, and was exceeding grateful that Sansa was asleep and that there were enough layers of cloth between them that his humiliation was a private one. At least he'd sent the Red Woman away, and he had begun to extract himself from her influence. He forced himself to recall of any number of unpleasant memories to will away the discomfort. Get a hold of yourself, man.

Thankfully, it was not long before the camp appeared in front of them, and Errol appeared again to lead them towards the tent set up to receive Sansa, while Stannis ignored the curious stares at the redheaded bundle in his arms. Arriving close to the tent, he gritted, a little roughly, "Lady Stark." Sansa awoke, instantly, but regarded him a little dazedly. "We've arrived. Hang on to the reins." She nodded, blinking, and he quickly dismounted and reached to help her down. She grimaced upon her feet hitting the ground before the look of exhaustion quickly resettled. He ground his teeth. Gods_dammit_. Without a word, he bent his knees and swept her up into his arms. "Berda's in there?" he barked at Errol, who nodded in confirmation. He marched towards the tent.

It occurred to him that all the insipid stories his daughter enjoyed may have been romanticized by bards spinning exaggerated tales of perfectly pragmatic and practical actions taken by perfectly pragmatic and practical men. He made a note to point out such a possibility to Shireen the next time she read from her books.


	5. Northern Counsel

Stannis returned from his morning rounds of the camp and headed back to his tent, motioning to Rogers' youngest son, serving as a camp messenger. "Have Berda report in to my tent."

"Yes, m'lord."

Stannis waited out the woman's arrival by scowling at his maps. He knew it was the right thing to send Davos ahead with Shireen, but he missed his counsel terribly. Decisions had to be made, and he needed a second set of eyes to review their options.

"Yeh bid me, Yer Grace?" Berda, a stout bull of a woman entered the tent, inclined her head. Berda was not the curtseying type, but he didn't need her to be.

"Yes, I need the status of the Stark girl."

" 'er _status_?" Berda frowned.

He fixed her with an impatient look. "Yes, report on the progress of her well-being." He'd left the Stark girl under Berda's more-than-capable care upon arrival at the tent, and he felt his inquiry a perfectly obvious one.

"Ach, well. I treated her feet misself, they'll heal soon enough. No toes lost. Called for a full bath, the gull looked like she needed the rest of her self warmed and clean." He'd forgotten to order a bath, he scowled. But of course, that's why he'd called Berda in; she'd know such details about the care of ladies. "Fell asleep shortly after we got 'er bundled in linens, before we could get any food into 'er. But she's had a full night's sleep now, and rations this morning. 'er clothes should arrive soon. She's as righted to sorts as best I get'er, I suppose."

"Excellent, have her brought to me when she's presentable." He paused at Berda's reproachful look. "What?"

Berda considered him. "The gull's ill-used."

"I'm aware, Berda, but not by me. You said she's recovered."

"Din't say that." Though appearing somewhat mollified, she pressed on. "I think she's had bad times."

"Yes, her father was beheaded and the rest of her family massacred or missing, I am _aware_, woman. Get to the point."

Berda narrowed her eyes right back at him, unimpressed. "Davos inn't here to smooth yer edges."

Flummoxed, Stannis gaped at her. "I don't need Davos here to supervise my interaction with a lady, Berda."

"Ah'm just sayin', she's had a roug' time of it and I don' think she needs any more. Ole scars, new bruises, new … cuts. Practice yer fancy court manners, if ye still 'ave any of 'em."

They scowled at each other for a long moment before Stannis sighed, nodded. "Sansa Stark will leave this tent no worse than she enters it, woman, you have my word. Send her along."

Berda continued to eye him suspiciously, but apparently satisfied, she nodded "Aye, m'lord. Give us an hour-half."

* * *

Sansa approached the king's tent with a small amount of trepidation, but pulled herself to her full height. She nodded to the knights manning the door, who lifted the canvas for her.

"Your Grace," she curtseyed, bowing her head.

"Lady Stark. I'm told you've been adequately and competently cared for through the night." Stannis' hawk eyes looked up from a scroll in his hands and flicked over her, and it took every ounce of her mother's training to not blanch under his gaze.

"Yes, Your Grace. Berda was quite attentive. Thank you."

"I am … very glad to hear it, my lady. We wish you offer you as much… comfort as we can." Stannis' tone was a little stiff, she thought, as if his mouth was unused to forming the words. He cleared his throat. "I feel we have a lot to discuss, but first I need to ask a question of strategy with a Northerner."

"Strategy, Your Grace?" Sansa blinked. "With me?"

"My hand is on his way to the Wall and you're the only Northerner I've access to at the moment." He cast a hand at his maps. "I've had a raven from your brother." He gestured to the parchment in his hand. "There's been some sort of confrontation with the Wildlings, and he's requested my presence and emergency reinforcements. He did not strike me as an alarmist in my dealings with him, and so I'm inclined to answer his call – we've you to deliver, in any case. But I've decisions to make about what how best to divide our resources. I still plan to take Winterfell, and then King's Landing, but we suffered heavy losses with the deserters due to the weather and the Bolton sabotage." Sansa blinked at him, and he gestured again at his maps. "If you could take a look at the map and see if you have any ideas where my army may set up camp without imminent threat of death by snow or Bolton."

Sansa stared at the King as if he'd asked her to lead his troops into battle. Was he serious? "I have little experience with the needs of a military encampment, Your Grace."

"And yet," he gritted, with increasing impatience.

Sansa approached the table tentatively, scanning the rolled out parchment and hoping inspiration would strike. She hadn't even been in the North herself for years, and now the fate of an army was resting on her shoulders? She took a steadying breath, and forced herself to take her time gauging the layout of the land with her memories of the terrain. Her eyes flicked from the markings of villages and castles, trying to recall whose lands were whose. Eventually, she reached out and tapped a space of the map west of the Kingsroad, northeast of Deepwood Motte, in a region marked by mountains. "Perhaps here."

King Stannis circled around the table to peer with her. "Why there?"

"It's not on the map, and from the Kingsroad those mountains appear very dense, but there's a small valley in its midst. There's a less-travelled road that we would often use to traverse to Bear Island. My father would have us stop in there to rest. In the summer it's rather lovely. There are some buildings already set up for occasional travellers to seek shelter there – " she paused, "But I don't want to presume that that would be adequate for an army this size."

Stannis waved a hand. "What else?"

"There are also tunnels," she indicated, running her finger along the ridge. "Under the mountains. I can't speak to the food stores there are the moment; the tunnels are often used for grain storage, but I do not know how preparations for winter have continued in all of this conflict, or if the Boltons know about them. But they could be useful to take cover in storms. And there's a spring for water and animals for hunting in the surrounding woods, and land for grazing if there's no snow." She pointed out various elements in the map.

"I see." He nodded, encouraging her to offer a final tentative opinion.

"I have not been in the North for years, and cannot speak to allegiances since my brother's end at the Twins." She swallowed. "But it would be harder for Ramsey to sabotage your troops that distance from Winterfell, and," she pointed at the nearest strongholds, "Houses Glover at Deepwood Motte and the Mormonts of the island have been loyal to House Stark for a thousand years." Was any of that even true anymore? Was anyone loyal, now? "At least, they were."

The king made a noise that seemed half disgruntled, half… amused? "Aye, I think it's safe to say Mormont's allegiances haven't shifted." At her questioning look, he elaborated. "I've had ravens from Lady Mormont that indicated that with no Stark in Winterfell, Bear Island was its own kingdom, for the foreseeable future."

Sansa allowed herself a ghost of a smile, before hiding it again. "Perhaps she'll be willing to help aid in setting up and protecting your camp, then. I don't think they're a large force, but they know the area."

"Perhaps. I fooled myself into believing I'd be able to mount a northern campaign without the help of Northerners, it seems. Hubris." The king cleared his throat, walked back to the other side of the table, gesturing for knights at the door to come forward. "Send a team of scouts out immediately, to here," he pointed. "Scan the valley and evaluate Lady Stark's recollections of the area and the suitability for the army."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Quickly." The men hustled out of the tent, and Stannis gestured to a chair. "Sit, if you will, Lady Stark. I'd like a full accounting of your time since your father's death."


	6. Taking Care of Business (Every Day!)

_The girl looked a godsdamned faerie princess,_ Stannis mused irritably. She'd obviously been attractive even in her disarray the day prior, but a night's rest had done her immense justice – the heavy bags under her eyes cleared, soft waves of copper hair brushed and simply swept back, fair skin blotchy from exertion, cold, and tears now even and creamy in tone. The longest, wispiest lashes he'd ever seen fluttered around eyes of soft, dreamy blue. No wonder even his fool brother had instantly marked her as destined to be his good-daughter. But those eyes were intelligent, guarded, and incongruously hard, and that in addition to her decidedly regal bearing, grounded her as something much more than some insubstantial fair maiden.

Stannis prided himself on his ability to discern a person's true character and accurately evaluate their strengths and weakness – it was, in his opinion, the backbone strength of his army. (Melisandre was arguably an exception, of course. But deep down he'd known what she was; he'd just been embarrassingly susceptible to her seductions and recklessly ignored his instincts in pursuit of his wanton lust and single-minded fixation on the throne.) He was aware enough of his newfound weakness with the fairer sex, though, and the general precariousness of a Northern campaign, to send scouts to verify Sansa's information and evaluate with military expertise before mobilizing his troops, but his instincts told him that her advice had been sound. He already began planning how he was going to divvy up his forces between the valley and the Wall in the back of his mind while Sansa quietly recounted her experiences.

His eyes took another sweep of her person. Bruises, Berda had said. Cuts. It wasn't as if Berda was a shy and retiring personality, but the damage would have to be rather severe to have her take that kind of tone with him, to activate that deep a sense of protectiveness over a girl she'd just met. He could see none, with her neatly covered from the neck down in gown, cloak, and gloves. He didn't tend to enjoy the company of most men, as he had little patience to suffer fools, but still found it hard to understand how any man lucky enough to have been gifted this lovely, self-possessed woman as a bride would then mistreat her to such an extent. He cast back to his own cold, unsentimental wedding and Selyse's sallow, drawn face and utter lack of charm, switching it to Sansa in his mind's eye. Oh, he probably would have hurt her, too, with negligence or curt thoughtlessness; he had no illusions about his capability as a doting or sensitive husband. But what sort of man was he dealing with in Ramsey Bolton, who would choose to hurt a woman like this, a woman barely more than a girl, and with that kind of violence? A man charged with the holy duty of care and protection of that woman, a woman who bore him no threat? How deep was that man's capability of cruelty? A current of anger began to hum in his veins, but he struggled to keep it banked, focussing instead on asking follow-up questions to Sansa's tale.

"Excuse me, Lady Stark, but you were also married to Tyrion Lannister, prior to Bolton?" His network of spies had never been rigorous, and his movements north had compromised his intelligence gathering. There seemed rather large gaps.

"Yes, Your Grace, after the Battle of Blackwater. Joffrey set me aside for Margaery Tyrell. He did so at Tywin Lannister's direction."

"Tyrion Lannister is dead, then?"

"Not to my knowledge. It's possible. But Lord Baelish said he murdered Tywin after his conviction for Joffrey's death and disappeared, after we left."

Stannis frowned. "Then how did you end up remarried?"

Sansa blushed and averted her eyes for the first time. "My marriage to Tyrion Lannister was never consummated. He protested the marriage on the grounds of my age, and, I believe, on the principle of my having to marry the family that had just murdered my kinsmen in a violation of guest rights. By all laws of the North, at least, I was free to marry."

"I see." He'd be the last to categorize any Lannister as either a fool or a saint, but Tyrion Lannister appeared willing to nominate himself for consideration. "Ramsey Bolton did not afford you that same privilege, I presume?" It was a statement of fact more than a question, and Sansa's eyes came back to his, hard and cold.

"No. He did not."

Stannis coughed, uncomfortable with the implication in her voice. "May I ask why you agreed to marry the Bolton bastard in the first place?"

"I didn't want to. But Lord Baelish told me that you were coming, and the move would at least return me to my home. When Ramsey boasted of his successful sabotage, though, I was afraid help was no longer coming, and found my marriage… intolerable."

"I see." Stannis rubbed his temple, sat back, and considered her. "I can annul the marriage, of course, but the matter will be settled either way when I take Winterfell. I promised your brother Roose Bolton's head on stick," he recalled, with some relish, "and it will be no matter for his bastard to join him. Can you tell me anything of his forces, or anything else of note within Winterfell?"

"I believe Roose said he had a force of 5000 men, and he was counting on my marriage to secure more. Walda Bolton is pregnant." Her gaze remained steady. "And Ramsey Bolton is a less a man than a monster."

Stannis took a moment to hold her gaze and consider her words, before nodding. "Thank you, Lady Stark. I hope to right this situation, oust the usurpers, and install you as Wardenness of the North as soon as possible." He gestured to a knight at the door. "Bring the Tarth woman."

He stood to pour both of them something to drink while they waited. "Your brother's raven has made the decision of the Greyjoy traitor's fate - he will take the black and defend the wall. I have another captor whose fate is yet unclear, however." He handed her a cup, returned behind his table. "I hope you will help me settle the matter once and for all."

Sansa studied him, bemused. "Your Grace?"

He waved a hand. "It'll wait until she arrives. No point going through it twice." He sat in silence and reviewed his maps, continuing his militia calculations, and absolutely did _not_ watch Sansa out of the corner of his eye. He did _not_ watch her small hands twist nervously around the cups, nor admire how her hair reflected the light of the fire. He had many other concerns to attend to.

Thankfully, the Tarth woman appeared presently. "Ach, let's get this over with then."

Brienne of Tarth looked to Sansa in some surprise, and Sansa mirrored her look. "Lady Sansa!"

"Yes, Lady Brienne, thanks to your information we were able to retrieve Lady Stark from Winterfell." Stannis stood. "Of course, now I must choose what to do with you. I can hardly have you running around trying to murder me when I'm in the middle of a campaign."

* * *

Sansa recognized Brienne of Tarth immediately – she was a unique character, of course – and suddenly recalled the other woman's words in the tavern._ Renly was murdered by a shadow,_ she'd claimed in defense of an accusation of murder. _A shadow with the face of Stannis Baratheon_. Sansa was suddenly chilled.

The enormous woman pulled herself to her full height and glowered down at the king; the king, for his part, appeared unruffled. "As you'll recall from when we last spoke, it had been my impression that you had murdered Renly, Lady Brienne. The Stormlander men passed along that information, the prevailing story that you had caught wind of how my brother spoke of you behind your back and you lost your wits and stabbed him in the back." Brienne's head reared, but Stannis continued briskly. "My brothers could both be very charming, Brienne, and it is no particular surprise you would be won over by Renly. But he was prone to superficiality and duplicitousness. I'm sure he enjoyed your devotion very much, even if he did truly not respect you for it. I do question your sense and good judgement to support him when he challenged my claim to the throne."

Brienne replied, stiffly, "The lords of the Stormlands all supported Renly –"

"Lady Stark," Stannis cut in, turning to his guest. "You had three brothers of your own, did you not?"

Sansa started, surprised by the quick shift of attention. "I did, Your Grace."

"Imagine if after Robb had fallen, the youngest – what was his name?"

"Rickon."

"Imagine if after Robb had fallen, Rickon had risen up in arms against your father's second son instead of banding with him against those who had struck him down. Would you approve? Would your mother and father?"

"… No, your Grace, I don't think I would. That they would." She glanced at him, at Brienne, and added a quick caveat. "Of course, my time away from the North has shown me that not all families are like mine."

"Of course, but the principle stands." Stannis turned back to Brienne. "I conferred with my Hand after we spoke and learned that the Red Priestess had taken action in my name of which I did not approve, though I will admit I'm glad I did not have to kill my own men due to my brother's reckless sense of entitlement. Still, I must hold myself responsible for allowing such things to occur under my command." He sat again. "Your dogged devotion to Renly and his memory is somewhat admirable, if naïve and ill-advised. On the other hand, your subsequent attachment to Catelyn Stark and commitment to honour your promises even after her death speak well of you. Unfortunately, as I said, I can't have a dramatic, overly-principled and vengeful giantess running amok with my murder on her mind, can I?"

Brienne's face remained stony and silent, but Sansa could sense conflicting sense of nerves and anger fighting under the surface.

"I am willing to admit that I was wrong about your guilt in my brother's murder, if you are willing to admit that you may have been misled in the matter as well. Lady Stark has long been at the mercy of her enemies, now, and it strikes me that she may feel better with personally dedicated protection, independent of my army." He rest his shrewd eyes at the Tarth woman. "If you are amenable to bending the knee to her, and by extension honour her alliance with me, I will forgo punishment for your past treason - in exchange for your word that you will refrain from taking my head. Provided, of course, that Lady Stark agrees."

Brienne stood stock still for a long moment. Then, abruptly, she turned and kneeled before Sansa. "Lady Sansa, I offer my services once again. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

Sansa swallowed, considering her response. Having her own protection seemed wise. The woman, though awkward, was seemingly capable enough to be Renly's Kingsguard, and her earnest heart appeared in the right place. She was sympathetic to the notion of misplacing your trust in the wrong man – and, the little voice in her head told her, it would be good to have someone inclined to be suspicious of the king and his motives in her corner. She felt an overwhelming instinct to trust Stannis Baratheon herself, and knew it was wiser to have a clear-eyed, neutral ally to counter that, less she be led astray by her own foolish nature once again. Stannis had many things speak in his favour - her father's support, and shared enemies across the realm, a large army and an honest, straightforward manner. But she needed to be more careful with her future than she had been with her past, and begin to build her own security.

She arose, and cleared her throat. "Lady Brienne, you do me honour with your offer. I accept your sword to my service. I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and... and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour. I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise."

"Excellent, I'm glad to have this nonsense settled." Stannis gestured to the door impatiently. "If you'll return Lady Stark to her tent and stand watch over her, Lady Brienne. I've rather a lot of work to do." He directed a curt, but respectful, nod to Sansa, and turned to his papers with a quill. Dismissed, Sansa moved towards the door, but paused at the King's words at the door. "I'd advise more rest, Lady Stark. We leave this place at dawn."


	7. Taking Care of Business (Every Way!)

_Lady Mormont,_

_I have recently escaped the usurpers in Winterfell and am now accompanied by Stannis Baratheon, who plans to return me personally to the protection of my brother Jon Snow, Lord High Commander of the Watch. _

_His Grace has told me you have expressed staunch and unwavering support of House Stark even in these dark times, and I am grateful to hear it. Circumstances require the Baratheon army must temporarily fall back from their mission to liberate Winterfell from the Boltons. I would not presume military support from Bear Island during final preparations for winter, but it is my hope that you will be able to help the King garrison his troops in the hills of Bear Pass while we make the trip to Castle Black._

_We head to Bear Pass this morn. I look forward to meeting you; your mother was a formidable woman, and I am honoured she stood with my brother until his last day. _ _The North remembers._

_Lady Sansa Stark _

Stannis scanned Lady Stark's missive, penned at his request, and frowned, reading it again. It was more tentative than he'd expected, but admittedly he was more used to issuing orders day-to-day, and was secure in his position. Sansa was clearly less comfortable making firm declarations or orders, at least in writing. She had not declared herself Wardenness of the North, either because she felt she couldn't – or shouldn't – until she held Winterfell again, or because she didn't want to alienate Northerners who might dig in their heels at the implication she'd already knelt to a Southorn king. But in a few short lines, she'd referenced House Stark's long-held commitment to the wellbeing of the Watch (and by extension, his) to the family of the former Lord High Commander, and both invoked and paid appreciation for past Stark fealty while acknowledging and honouring losses already made.

Ultimately the note was evidence of a diplomatic talent that he himself lacked. _"Practice yer fancy court manners, if ye still 'ave any of 'em,"_ Berda echoed in his ears. Stannis grimaced. Charm and diplomacy did not come naturally to him, and between the matching bookends of Robert and Renly, it had often felt useless ever trying to get a word in edgewise; he'd never be as good as them at it, so he focussed on his strengths. He didn't regret it overmuch; he was who he was, and he was unlikely to become _charming _at his age. But diplomacy was a skill, and like any kind of muscle, any skill could be practiced.

In any case, it had pleased him that Lady Stark had demonstrated herself thus far to be as intelligent and canny as she was, far from some shallow lady pampered to uselessness in the South. It was clear to him that, rather than gracing his army as mere decoration as a symbol of House Stark, she would be worth much more to him as an active negotiator in dealings with the Northmen.

And though it grated to admit, he had to consider that it would be wise to practice his own diplomacy skills, if he was going to be King. He glanced over at Sansa, mounting her horse with the aid of the Tarth woman's squire. He somehow found it easier than with most to keep his grouchiness in check with her, though he didn't know whether to attribute it to her broad strategic value, Berda's terse reproach, or a general sympathy for her trials at an age so close to Shireen's. Sansa's hair flashed bright red in the morning light, and for some irrational reason, Proudwing popped into his mind. He blinked it away. Ridiculous sentimentality.

Perhaps he could _practice_ such diplomacy skills with her, try to get those unused muscles into better shape, if for no other reason than a solid relationship with her could only help him achieve his current goals. He scowled. Of course, he had little to no idea how or where to start.

* * *

It was a bright and fine day, the kind of day where the air had a bite but the sky blue. Sansa sat astride a beautiful chestnut mount, flanked on either side by Podrick and Brienne. She remembered Podrick from her days as Tyrion's half-wife, of course, and he kept her amused on the trip with tales of Brienne's attempts to train him up as a knight as Brienne, solemn as ever, appeared ready to consider every one of Stannis' men a mortal threat to her person. This also amused Sansa, and she appreciated the inclination, but truth be told the men of Stannis' army seemed to want to give her a wide berth, either from respect or distrust she wasn't quite sure – but either way she took the opportunity to breathe in the scenery of the Northlands.

A few hours in to their ride, Brienne seemed to relax infinitesimally. "Are we expecting any reception at this outpost, my lady?"

"I'm not sure, Lady Brienne. I'm told the Mormonts have remained staunch supporters of House Stark since my father's death. Lord Baelish mentioned them in his accounts of the rise and fall of my brother's campaigns, and the king has indicated the current Lady Mormont remains faithful to the point of spurning him. I wrote a note to accompany his raven to Bear Island requesting their support – but many of their forces were wiped out at the Red Wedding, I believe," Sansa concluded grimly. "They may not have the resources to spare. However, of the entire north, the Mormonts are the house most likely to answer the call of a daughter of House Stark."

Brienne's curiosity was piqued. "Why is that, my lady?"

"The territory of Bear Island is particularly vulnerable to raids from the Iron Islands. By some necessity, the people there have developed a tradition of warrior women who are more than capable of defending themselves. You'd get along with them quite well, I think." Sansa smiled tentatively at Brienne. "The previous Lady of Bear Island, Maege, was a fearsome woman whom my sister _idolized. _Arya wanted to be fostered at the Island very badly," Sansa recalled wistfully, before composing herself. "But the new Lady Mormont is but a child herself; last I met her, she was just a babe – I know not who she is now. While House Mormont is more likely than almost any other to back a woman, I can't assume anything. Northerners are just as likely to think me a traitor for any number of reasons: my time spent in the South, either of my marriages, even this alliance with the Baratheon army."

Brienne took this in. "I see."

Sansa smiled, trying to reassure her. "My father always said Northerners are different. More loyal. Prepare for the worst, Lady Brienne, but we can also hope for the best."

As it turned out, it was neither the worst, nor the best, but somewhere in between.

Lady Mormont, tiny and fierce, faced off with her entourage of advisors against Stannis, Sansa, and their assorted support. A child of ten, with a serious face that did not seem prone to smiles, eyed them in silence, a maester hovering at her side. "Lord Baratheon, I presume."

"Lady Mormont," Stannis nodded a greeting in return, tone noncommittal, his face resting in his own naturally stern demeanour. Sansa intuited that he felt ill-inclined to be solicitous to someone who had already firmly rejected his requests for support.

Sansa broke in with a smile. "Lady Mormont, we are well-met. I remember coming to Bear Island for your birth."

Lady Mormont lifted a single brow. "Lady… Bolton, is it not? Or is it Lannister? I've heard conflicting reports."

_Ah, it's to be like that, is it? _Sansa refused her a reaction, though her voice cooled several degrees. "'Twere that I had received an upbringing such as the ladies of your island, Lady Mormont, I may not have had to make the decisions I did to survive. But I am a Stark, and will always be a Stark."

"Lady Stark's marriage status is inconsequential," Stannis interrupted flatly, as his mount shifted and stomped its foot impatiently. "Her compelled marriage to the Imp was a farce and I've annulled the Bolton travesty. But if the houses of the North won't accept my authority on the matter, I'll have both Boltons' heads in a month's time and it will be settled either way."

Sansa smiled inwardly. Coming from so many men, that sort of statement could sound like a foolish boast, but coming from the King, it sounded like a simple promise, delivered as matter of fact. The effect was wholly reassuring.

Lyanna Mormont appeared to feel the same way, and took another moment to reappraise him. "Is that so? But you're retreating north?"

Stannis grimaced. "I'd rather not, but circumstances warrant it. Lady Stark's recovery coincided with an urgent message from the Wall, and I have promised to return her to safety while I confer with the High Commander of the Watch. I'd like not to tire the bulk of my men needlessly, and we'll make our trip much faster with a smaller party - but if we cannot set up a garrison safely here we'll return en masse to the North and then back again to take Winterfell."

Lyanna Mormont considered him. "And you do not want our bannermen to join your forces." It was less question than statement.

"_'Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark_.'" Stannis parroted dryly. "Your message was received, Lady Mormont, but I would hope that that very noble sense of allegiance would extend at least as far as helping those men who _are_ willing to take up arms to free Winterfell and return a Stark to its walls."

Sansa interjected, smoothly. "Lady Mormont, I was told that many of your people fell at the betrayal at the Twins, including your lady mother. You have already lost much to this war, and winter is coming. While I was with the Boltons I did not get the impression that preparations for the season were their priority, so there must be much work to do. But if you can spare some aid in preparing the Baratheon army to survive in this terrain until his return, I would consider it material support to House Stark in our effort to retake our home from those who have stolen it."

Lady Mormont silently considered them both, the troops behind them, and sent a quick affirming glance to the maester at her side, appearing to come to a decision. "Lady Stark, you do Bear Island insult with the assumption that we will not fight by your side when the time comes. House Mormont has kept faith with House Stark for a thousand years, and we will not break that faith today. We have not many men, but you will recall that one man from Bear Island is worth ten mainlanders." A ghost of a smile twitched at her lips, and Sansa found herself returning it. "Come, let us get your army settled."


	8. The North Remembers

"You dealt with the Mormont well." Sansa looked to her left, surprised, as Stannis pulled his destrier next to hers. Podrick fell back, but Brienne remained steady at her side, glowering just a bit out of the corner of her eye. Stannis' jaw was working, as if he was uncomfortable completing some dreaded task.

They'd been on the road for a few hours, making their way up an old, narrow and winding trail that cut through the northeastern mountains, at Lyanna Mormont's suggestion.. It was half-hunting-route, half winding route to the wall, used by mostly local folk when who didn't want to backtrack to a more southern access point to the King's Road. They were hosted by a small retinue of Bear Island men familiar with the trail, and a few of Stannis' own trusted swords leading surrounding Theon, but they'd kept the bulk of their men down in the Bear Pass clearing in order to make the trip as quickly as possible. Stannis had seemed grateful for the option; after the sabotage to his troops, he appeared keen to camouflage his movements as much as possible.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Sansa managed in return. "But I think the Mormonts were more inclined than most to be loyal."

"I've had more luck pulling a mule across a mudfield in a rainstorm than get support from your father's bannermen," Stannis replied flatly, casting a brief look at her before returning his gaze to the path ahead. "So from my perspective I witnessed a miracle."

Sansa ruthlessly repressed her unexpected amusement at his very _annoyed_ tone. "If I may, Your Grace, I think I see one major sticking point in your relations with the houses of the North."

"Oh?" Nonplussed, he sent another look sideways.

"You are far too much like them, without being one of them." Sansa failed at keeping an amused twist from her lips at his indignant scowl. "It was not an insult, Your Grace."

"I am their _King_, Lady Stark."

"You are Robert Baratheon's rightful successor to the Iron Throne," she corrected, mild. "And King in the North if the bannermen choose to kneel." Stannis' scowl deepened quite viciously, and Sansa swallowed her nerves to carry on. "I have faith that they will likely be convinced in time, Your Grace. But – correct me if I'm wrong – you are someone who sees the value in someone proving one's worth, with deeds, and not just words."

"Aye," Stannis grunted, grinding his teeth. "True enough."

"I was not here when my brother was declared King of the North," Sansa continued, tentative. "And I have only recently returned. But the North knelt to the Targaryens, and then Targaryens kidnapped my aunt, and killed by grandfather and my uncle. My father knelt to your brother after he helped provide justice for those crimes, and then my father was murdered by a Baratheon after kneeling to him." Sansa held up a hand to Stannis' protest. "Joffrey was no true Baratheon, but he believed he was, and Tommen must also be one to keep his throne. The North remembers, Your Grace, and the North doesn't know you; to them you are yet another Baratheon from the South. But I believe you have are on the correct path to earn the North's allegiance, just as Robert did. Restore Winterfell, free it from the Boltons, provide justice to House Stark, and I believe you'll earn the confidence of the northern houses to rally against the Lannisters once again." She looked at him directly, raised a brow. "And I think we both know the houses are hardly as likely to clamour for me as they did for Robb."

"You have no wish to be Queen of the North, then, Lady Stark?" Stannis replied, casting his eyes around before turning his hawk eyes on hers.

"I just want to go home, my lord," Sansa replied softly, looking away to the mountain ranges. "My foolish desire to be a queen died with my lord father." They rode in silence for a few moments before she continued. "I believe you had as much to do with Lady Mormont's change of heart as I did, Your Grace. I think that if you try to remind yourself that you have much in common with Northerners, it will guide you in your dealings with them. Ask what would earn your own loyalty, and do that."

Stannis took that in, twisted his lips in thought, and considered her. "Thank you, Lady Stark. That is helpful."

Pleased, she slowly smiled at him. "You're quite welcome, Your Grace." He flushed, embarrassed, and looked away.

* * *

Stannis felt the direct hit of Sansa's smile in a hot streak down his back and, mortifyingly, it echoed a pulse deep into his cock._ By the gods_, he swore to himself, breaking their eye contact. _Where did that come from?_ He had packed the humiliating incident of the ride back to camp deep into the recesses of his conscious dignity and done his best to forget it, chalking it up to a purely male reaction to the close proximity to a woman - but one smile had undone all that work. The only other woman who had ever unnerved him by that kind of thing alone, had been Melisandre – but her eyes had been sly and knowing, and her slow smile extended an invitation. But Sansa's eyes were clear, her smile sweet and tentative. There was no reason for his body to react like this, other than his recent return to sexual famine. Gods, he _had_ been ruined.

Flustered, he missed her next question. "Sorry, what was that?"

"Your family, Your Grace. Your daughter and lady wife. I will meet them at Castle Black?" Sansa was curious, friendly. She didn't know.

"My daughter," he responded gruffly. "My wife passed on our way down from the Wall." Perversely, he grasped the opportunity to wallow in the grim scene of his wife's death, ruthlessly using it to tamp down his humiliating arousal.

Sansa's eyes widened, taken aback. "I'm so sorry, Your Grace, I didn't know, no one – my condolences." He nodded, curtly, and when he didn't elaborate she tentatively pressed, "May I ask what happened? The weather, the Bolton sabotage…"

"She was unwell," he tersely responded, avoiding her eyes.

Sansa frowned. "Unwell."

He worked his jaw, knowing that the word covered all manner of sins, but he knew that if Sansa was going to be spending time with Shireen in his absence, then it was best that she knew the circumstances before Shireen had to tell her. "My wife was devoted to the Lord of Light, and by extension the priestess who served him and guided my army. The priestess claimed she had a vision that involved burning my daughter at the stake in sacrifice to aid our troops. When I refused to indulge them in this madness, my wife lost herself to her own and ran into the flames."

"My gods," Sansa breathed. "How horrible."

Stannis saw the Tarth woman keenly studying him, but ignored it. "Quite."

"I'm sorry for your loss, Your Grace."

Stannis was brusque. "My marriage was one of duty, Lady Stark, and I am only glad my daughter did not perish for my folly."

"Your folly?"

"Melisandre was here by my desire alone, for her promises to deliver me the Iron Throne. Her support gave me early victories, more than I knew" - he thought on Renly - "but her God seemed to disappear when we marched on Winterfell, and the cost He asked was too high."

Sansa rode in silence. "I can't speak on the Lord of Light, or His favour, or if your priestess aided you in the South. But you are in the North now, and the old gods remain powerful here. The North remembers, after all."

The men ahead of them began to speed up as the path widened, and rounding a corner, suddenly, the Wall appeared in full view.

"Open the gates!" the Bear Island men began to call, and the party kicked their horses into action and bore down on the entrance to the castle.

Sansa sent a vaguely apologetic look Stannis' way before she urged her horse forward, breaking even with the Bear Mountain men and wheeling her mount into the courtyard, Brienne and Podrick hot on her heels. She looked around, searching, as Stannis rode in behind her, just in time to see her dismount and launch herself into the arms of Jon Snow.


	9. Reunions

Stannis dismounted and pat his horse, keeping an eye on the prolonged embrace. He felt the smallest of twinges at the sight – her _brother_, he chided himself, and then chided himself for even having a twinge – before wholly distracted by the small cannon that launched into him. "Father!"

Taken aback, Stannis placed an awkward arm around his daughter's back. "Shireen?" His daughter was always pleased to greet him, and his presence hadn't been expected, but rarely was she so… demonstrative. Was this due to being free of her mother's presence, or to the trauma of her loss, or…

"I'm so glad you're here, Father, it's been _awful."_

Stannis laid a tentative hand on her hair, and searched out Davos, who was hurriedly making his way down a set of stairs and looking rather grim. "What's happened?"

"Welcome back to Castle Black, Your Grace," Davos replied. "Shireen and I were preparing a raven to you just now. There have been… developments," he finished. Stannis eyed his Hand: his grave face belied his even tone.

"What kind of developments?" Stannis asked, taking in the solemn stares of assorted men around the courtyard. Two men had paused from taking rope down from the gallows, and there was a strange tension in the air.

"It's… complicated. I'm glad you're here, a raven wouldn't do it justice. But why have you come?"

Stannis gently extricated himself from Shireen, noting her agitated countenance, and gestured to the Stark reunion towards the back of the courtyard. "We found Lady Stark shortly after you left. We had to relocate the troops before returning her to Lord Snow."

Davos' eyes rounded, startled, and he looked closer at the redhead across the way. Jon Snow had tears in his eyes, brushing her hair back and cupping her face, before pulling her back into an embrace. "You found her!"

"Yes, though not before she married. It will be righted soon enough." Stannis began to lead Davos and his daughters over to the reunited siblings.

"The army?"

"Temporarily retreated and garrisoned in Bear Pass. A necessary evil, but one I hope I'm able to gain advantage from."

Davos' follow-up question was interrupted by their party's arrival at the Stark siblings, who broke apart, teary and smiling.

"Your Grace!" Jon managed. "Thank you for finding her, bringing her here." Sansa smiled at him and squeezed his arm.

"You're welcome, Lord Commander Snow." Stannis replied. He noted a flicker on the young man's face, but carried on. "Lady Stark, may I present the Princess Shireen, and my hand, Ser Davos Seaworth." Sansa smiled sweetly at his daughter and nodded to Davos, who managed a welcoming twinkle at her, in his kindly way.

"A pleasure, milady."

The young Lord Commander suddenly froze, his face a thundercloud. "_Greyjoy_," he growled, moving to advance on Theon, shamefacedly standing back by the horses. Stannis and Sansa both moved to stop him, Stannis with a hand up, Sansa gripping his arm.

"The Greyjoy traitor will take the black in exchange for his crimes," Stannis commanded. "He escaped execution by aiding Lady Stark's escape from Lord Bolton's custody."

Anguished, Lord Snow protested, "But he _betrayed _Robb and _murdered _Bran and Rickon-"

"He says he didn't," Sansa interrupted quietly. "He betrayed Robb, but the bodies he displayed were boys from the village. But he also doesn't know where they are now."

"I'm under the impression that the Wall desperately needs more men," Stannis continued. "He'll serve out the rest of his days here."

"The Wall hardly needs more the likes of him," Jon spat. Mildly surprised by the tone of the Commander, Stannis took in the array of men surrounding the yard, and the heavy tension that seemed to emanate from them. Something had gone on here, obviously. Incongruously, Stannis noted, the new leader of the Wildlings, the redheaded giant Tormund, hovered just to the left, keenly interested in the Tarth woman - though his expression hardened when he met Stannis' eye. _Ach_, Stannis thought. _Two giants with a common grudge. _That might have to be dealt with.

Davos' eyes also darted around. "Your Grace, I think it best we go inside and… catch each other up."

"Aye," Jon agreed. "Follow me."

* * *

Stannis paced as Jon and Edd attempted a recount of the doomed evacuation of Hardhome. Shireen and Sansa sat in an alcove to the side, by the fire, the direwolf Ghost settling alertly at their feet. The beast had stuck quite close to his daughter, slipping up the stairs behind the party as they retreated into the King's Tower, where they would have privacy. The animal was also quite content to let Sansa scratch his ears. He wasn't precisely thrilled about having them present for this conversation, but Jon and Davos had been jumpy and insistent that they both stay within sight. Brienne of Tarth was posted at the door to the Tower, ever vigilant.

"I'm not sure how I could possibly describe it, Your Grace, but after the Night King slaughtered the village, he lifted his hand, and they all rose, and attacked us; instantly everyone we lost became one of them. We retreated, got a few thousand out, but most of the Wildlings now march with the army of the dead. That army grows with everyone they encounter, they don't tire, and they march south. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands."

Stannis closed his eyes, rubbed his temples. "When will they reach the wall?"

"I don't know, Your Grace."

"They can't swim?"

"No."

"At least there's that," Stannis muttered. "The Wall will slow them."

"But not forever, Your Grace. Winter is coming, and the army of the dead is coming with it."

Stannis stared into the fire, jaw working. "Yes. One war after the other, it appears. That Tarly I spoke to, Samwell, he said they can be killed with dragonglass."

"Yes, dragonglass, Valeryan steel, and of course, fire. The Wildlings have long burned their dead so they do not rise again.'

Stannis sighed. "One war at a time. So, the Wildlings you brought back, they're under your protection, Lord Commander? And the men of the Watch have accepted it." It was more of a statement, not a question, but he was greeted with awkward silence. He looked up to catch Davos and Snow exchanging looks. "What is it?"

Haltingly, Davos explained that he and Shireen had found Jon Snow's body in the snow a few nights previously, stabbed multiple times by mutinous men of the Watch, how a small group of loyalist men had dragged his body inside and barricaded themselves in the room against the uprisers. Stannis stared at Davos in growing horror, realizing that Shireen had been sent to the wall for safety only to find herself in the middle of a bloody mutiny of rapists and thieves. "The men you sent with us, most of them were knocked out and locked up before the attack – but Ghost never left Shireen's side, Your Grace," Davos rushed to reassure him. "Nor did I."

Stannis looked over to his daughter, who tried to smile at him reassuringly, but her lips quivered. Sansa reached out quietly and rest a hand on hers. "That must have been very scary to go through," Stannis heard her mutter softly. "You were very brave."

Stannis pulled his eyes back to Jon. "You seem healthy for a man recently stabbed."

Jon flushed, and Davos grit his teeth. "The Red Woman."

Stannis quirked a brow. "Healed you, did she?"

"She…" Jon coughed. "You see, Your Grace… I..."

"He died," Davos bit out. "He was dead. The red woman brought him back to life."

Both Sansa and Stannis froze. "Died?" Sansa repeated, horrified. Jon did not seem to want to look at her.

Davos looked Stannis directly in the eye, though. "She said he had a role to play at Winterfell. She said she saw him there."

"Did she?" Stannis asked, slowly, considering. "Well, at least the woman - and her God - have taken to giving life, instead of taking it." All the same, he eyed Jon warily. The man didn't seem different – well, he seemed shaken and nervous under his gaze – but Melisandre's witchcraft had rarely seemed to spring from a good place. "Where is Melisandre now?"

"Gone," Davos replied shortly. "Left in the cover of night almost immediately after raising Jon. Said it was best for her to leave."

Stannis absorbed the conflicting feelings. Abandonment, betrayal, but also great relief. He'd been concerned how he was going to both send her away and maintain the allegiance of her followers in his camp, but this provided a neutral option. He considered Jon again. "A role to play at Winterfell, eh? As Lord Commander of the Watch?"

"I'm no longer Lord Commander, Your Grace," Jon replied stiffly.

"No?" Stannis quirked a brow.

Jon's mouth settled into a firm line, and Stannis recognized the flash of the sting of betrayal in his eyes. "My vows to the Watch ended at death. And I died, at the hands of my own men. My place is no longer here. I was preparing to leave, just as you arrived."

"And what of the wildings? Will they remain under the protection of the Watch after you've left?"

"I'm… not sure," Jon answered uneasily.

The fire crackled in the resulting silence of the room. Stannis met Sansa's eyes briefly, calculating the situation in his mind, before turning again to the younger man. "Do you share Melisandre's opinion, then, that you have a role to play at Winterfell, Jon Snow?"

Jon Snow hesitated. "I'm… tired of fighting, Your Grace. It's all I've done since I left home. I've killed brothers of the Night's Watch. I've killed wildlings. I've killed men that I admire. I hanged a boy younger than my brother Bran just yesterday. I've fought, and I've lost."

"It's our home," came Sansa's voice, quiet but steely. "Winterfell is _our home_, Jon. It's ours and Arya's and Bran's and Rickon's. Wherever they are, it belongs to our family. We have to fight for it." Jon looked at her, pained, as she continued. "And we'll never be safe so long as the Boltons hold the north."

"You know my offer, Jon Snow," Stannis cut in. "Though circumstances have changed somewhat," he added, glancing at Sansa, "Two Starks are a stronger rallying point than one. I must confer with my Hand now, but I ask that you and Lady Stark decide how you want to proceed. And I would also advise you think about the Wildlings, and what their options are. You disregarded my advice before; that was your choice to make as Lord Commander, but now you must deal with the fallout." He gestured to the door. "Lady Stark, you and your brother are of course welcome to share the other rooms in this tower."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Sansa rose, gifting Shireen a small smile before she headed for the door, where she waited for Jon to follow. "Jon?"

Jon studied Stannis a moment longer, before nodding. "Your Grace. We will talk again on the morrow. Come, Sansa," he smiled at his sister. "Let's get you something hot to eat."


	10. Decisions

Sansa smiled a small smile. "This is good soup. Do you remember those kidney pies Old Nan used to make?"

"With the peas and onions?" Jon smiled, wistfully. "We never should have left Winterfell."

"Don't you wish we could go back to the day we left?" Sansa agreed, a disgusted note entering her voice. "I want to _scream _at myself 'Don't go, you _idiot_.'"

"How could we know?" Jon smiled sadly at her.

"I spent a lot of time thinking about what an ass I was to you. I wish I could change everything," Sansa admitted, quietly.

"We were children."

Sansa sent him a glance mild rebuff. "I was _awful_, just admit it."

Jon's face creased with his first genuine smile since her arrival. "Fine, you were _occasionally _awful. But I'm sure I can't have been great fun, always sulking in the corner while the rest of you played."

"Can you forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive."

They were quiet a moment, before Sansa quietly asked, "What offer did His Grace make you?"

Jon fidgeted awkwardly, avoiding her eyes. "Before he began his march south, the King offered to legitimize me, if I bent the knee, offered me Lord of Winterfell, to be Warden of the North."

"Ah." Sansa leaned back. '_Though circumstances have changed somewhat.'_ She'd been dropped in Stannis' lap, almost quite literally, and he'd offered her Wardenness of the North, thinking Jon had committed himself to the Wall. "I see."

"I won't accept it," Jon rushed to assure her. "You're a trueborn Stark and daughter of Winterfell. Until we find Bran and Rickon… if we find them… Winterfell is yours, Sansa, it's not meant to be mine. But if I don't watch over you, Father's ghost will come back and murder me. I'll come south, and fight with the Baratheon army to oust Winterfell."

Sansa was quiet. "How many wildlings did you save at Hardhome?"

"A few thousand."

"Would they fight for you?"

"The Wildlings didn't come south to serve me. But the bigger problem is Stannis."

"How so?

"He burned their king for treason when he refused to bend the knee. "

Sansa blinked. "Pardon?"

"His Grace offered the Wildlings amnesty for their crimes, if they swore fealty, but it was not in Mance Rayder's nature to kneel. But instead of a sword, Stannis used fire."

Sansa thought of how the Red Woman wanted to burn the King's own daughter, how his wife rushed into the flames. "I imagine that's the preferred method of the followers of the Lord of Light?"

"Aye, it seems, but the sight did not endear the King to the Wildlings. They only trusted - or tolerated - me because I shot an arrow into Mance's heart, ended his misery."

Sansa thought back to her first meeting with Stannis, his care of her feet in their first encounter, the respect of his men, his deal with Brienne of Tarth, and their discussion on the road to Winterfell. "The King is a hard man, but I don't think him a cruel one. And I think he's lost his taste for the flames." She glanced at Jon, who nodded. She took that as a sign that Davos had briefed him on the threat to Shireen and the fate of Selyse Baratheon. "The Wildlings owe you their lives. But if you're no longer Lord Commander here, they have no sworn protection from Northerners, or the men of the Watch. From what you say, heading back north of the wall isn't an option for them, either."

Jon frowned. "No, it isn't."

"I suppose the Wildlings wouldn't be disposed to take up arms in _my_ name?" Sansa asked, but dryly. It was more statement than question.

Jon's mouth twisted. "We can ask them, but no, I think not."

Sansa looked into the fire, quiet. "I was never meant to have Winterfell, either, Jon. There were three Stark sons, and as soon as Bran was born, there was never any expectation that Winterfell would be anything except a place that I visited my family with my future children. I do not need to be Lady Stark, or Wardenness of the North. I only need my home to be freed from the monsters who now hold it. House Mormont has pledged their banners in support with our Baratheon alliance, but the King is right. You're the son of the last true Warden of the North. Our position will be stronger if you accept his offer. And you would be able to make an offer of protection to the Wildlings."

"The Wildlings are not likely to kneel for Stannis, let alone fight for him."

"Neither would Lady Brienne, and the King offered her amnesty if she knelt to me instead, and honoured my support of him. If the Wildlings pledge their support to you, and you to him, that might be… tolerable for him."

Jon was quiet for a long time. "Are you sure about this, Sansa? This is your birthright."

Sansa smiled. "I'm sure, Jon. It's _our_ birthright. And it's in good hands with you."

"We'll discuss terms with His Grace and with Tormund, then, in the morning."


	11. Negotiations

"Kneel? To _him?_" Tormund gestured, torn between being incredulous or furious. He sat across from Stannis in the King's Tower office, snarling. Davos hovered behind the King, and Sansa was flanked by the ever-present Brienne of Tarth and Podrick to the side, surveying the proceedings as Jon made his case to the big redheaded man.

"To me, as Warden of the North," Jon replied, "And I would acknowledge King Stannis' rightful claim to the Iron Throne, as my father did before me."

"He killed Mance Rayder!"

"I executed Mance Rayder," Stannis broke in, firmly. "For treason. You are south of the wall, and must acknowledge our laws while you're here. I gave Rayder the opportunity to kneel; he chose not to do so. I'm to understand that your people seek permanent refuge here now, to escape the walkers in the north, but you also know that you have committed crimes against the people here. I would be within my rights to execute the lot of you for those crimes against them, but here we are again: offering your people forgiveness and safety and our help in fighting the wights when they knock on our door. This is the last time this offer will be made, and I would think very carefully before rejecting it once again." Tormund reddened, but Stannis gestured at Jon Snow. "This man has already fought and already _died_ for you and your people. The men of the Wall will hardly grow more open to the Wildling presence once Jon Snow has left with me, nor will those people in the villages you've sacked forgive and forget. You have limited options right now, and I would consider them carefully."

Edd broke in. "Tormund. Jon's leaving me in command, and we executed the leaders of the plot against him. But the anti-Wildling sentiment behind that attack is not gone. Things here are too in flux to guarantee anything either way."

Stannis glanced briefly towards Sansa. "I'm told the people of the north are not disposed to accepting outsiders, and that they value action more than words. Demonstrate your loyalty to Lord Stark and help reinstate the rightful heirs to Winterfell, and I imagine your people might find it easier to settle here." Giantsbane opened his mouth to reply hotly, but a knock sounded at the door, interrupting negotiations. "Enter."

A bearded man entered and bowed his head to Jon, offering up a scroll. "A letter for you, Lord Commander."

"I'm not Lord Commander anymore," Jon grumbled, grumpy, but accepted the paper. He glanced at the seal, paused, then looked to Sansa. "It's the Bolton seal – it's from Winterfell." She visibly froze, apprehensive, then nodded for him to read it. He cleared his throat.

_"'To the traitor and bastard Jon Snow, Your false king is dead, bastard. He and all his host were smashed on the way to Winterfell and I took his head.'"_

Jon paused, confused, and looked to the King. Stannis' eyes held an odd glint of triumph, and Davos' a glint of amusement, but the King gestured for him to continue on.

_"'I have his magic sword. Tell his red whore. Your false king lied, and so did you. You have allowed thousands of wildlings past the Wall. You have betrayed your own kind. You have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard. Come and see. Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon-'"_

Sansa started, and matched Jon's look of horror when he paused to look at her, and swallowed as he pushed on. _"'His direwolf's skin is on my floor. Come and see. I want my bride back.'"_

Stannis' eyes fixed on Sansa as she got more visibly unsettled than he had seen her since he first found her in the woods.

_"'Send her to me, bastard,'"_ Jon spit out, _"'and I will not trouble you or your black crows or your wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride north and slaughter every wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living. You-"_

Jon broke off a final time. Sansa looked him in the eye. "Go on."

He demurred, slid his eyes away from her. "It's just more of the same."

Without hesitating, Sansa marched forward, plucked the letter from his hand, and finished reading in a hard tone, though her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

_"You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother. Then I will spoon your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North." _Sansa raised her eyes to the silent gathering. Even Giantsbane seen taken aback, the blustery winds of his ire calmed.

"'_Ramsey_ Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North'," Jon repeated into the stunned silence.

"His father's dead," Sansa replied, flatly. "Ramsay killed him. And now he has Rickon."

"We don't know that." Jon protested. "He also claimed to have routed the King's army and taken his head, and His Grace is right here."

"That I can explain," Stannis interjected, his eyes still on Sansa and the softly quivering note in her hands. "Before we left to retreat to Bear's Pass, I sent riders out to the villages closest to Winterfell, to spread the rumour that the bulk of the army had perished in the snowstorm after Ramsey's sabotage, that the rest had abandoned the cause. I was hoping we'd get their guard down, give us some options if we needed to explore them."

"You should be warned, Your Grace, that Ramsey isn't to be underestimated. He'll be hard to trap, as he's the one who likes to set them. He could be boasting to scare Jon, or he saw through your men's ruse and is trying to trick you. He likes to… play with people." Jon seemed surprised at Sansa's bluntness with the king, and equally surprised that Stannis appeared to accept her advice with nothing but a nod. Sansa re-examined the letter in her hands. "If Roose is dead, so are Walda and her baby. She must have given birth to a boy," she muttered, almost to herself. Davos' face, already increasingly horrified throughout the reading of the letter, paled a bit further. Stannis watched Sansa a moment longer, expression unreadable, as Jon gently removed the paper from her hands.

Stannis leaned forward and allowed himself one slow, deep breath. "This development likely works in our favour, nonetheless. Roose Bolton was a cold, calculating man, who would have been perfectly patient starving us out. The bastard is more hotheaded, easily goaded, I think. He won't be able to resist meeting us on the battlefield." He flicked his eyes to Sansa again, silently requesting her opinion on his assessment. She nodded. "Five thousand men, you said. I think we'll have enough, but I'd feel better with more, especially if he's prone to being wily. We'll rally the north, approach the bannermen of the most loyal houses, see how many more we can get." He absently ground his teeth. "It's possible Ramsey is playing his little games with me, but we should to be careful with whom we share the truth of my army's continued presence, just in case. Little birds fly quickly over the north, and we'll need every advantage we can get."

"I have two thousand at fighting strength," Tormund interrupted, brusque. "The rest are children or old people." At the raised brows around the room, he harrumphed. "That there is a mad dog, not a man. We'll have some talking to do, with my folk - but he's a threat to us. We'll put the dog down," he concluded, attempting a broad reassuring wink at the Tarth woman in a clear effort to lighten the mood in the room. The woman flushed and looked away, uncharacteristically unsure of herself, but her squire appeared to be fighting to tamp down a grin. Sansa sent a tentative thankful smile of her own to Tormund, and he sent a second, gentler wink at her as well.

"Good. The way fights are lining themselves up for us, the more men in the ranks, the better." Stannis ignored all the nonsense flitting around; he was in no mood to indulge it. His blood called to battle, his hands itched for a sword, and he tried to direct his fury productively. He stood up from the desk and paced to the window, the only evidence of the simmering anger burning under his skin. "We may have to split up to cover more ground. Lord Stark, you can ride to raise the banners, and talk to the free folk with Giantsbane. I want to get back to my men, ensure that Bolton hasn't targeted them in my absence - and I doubt my presence would help with Wildling diplomacy." He glanced at Davos. "I also have to decide what to do with Shireen. She can't stay here, and I don't want her anywhere near Ramsey Bolton." Davos frowned, obviously in agreement.

"I might suggest Bear Island, Your Grace," Sansa offered. "The men will be joining us, but the women of the island will guard the princess ferociously, regardless of the battle outcome."

He gazed upon her again, and nodded briskly. "So be it. Thank you, Lady Sansa." His voice caught a bit on her name, having gotten used to calling her by her more formal title, now transferred to her brother. He cleared his throat. "May I ask you to please keep the Princess Shireen company, and help her with preparations to leave?" Sansa nodded and bowed, and Stannis gestured to Edd. "Can we have hot tea delivered to my daughter's rooms, Lord Commander? I'd forgotten how drafty this place was."

"Of course, Your Grace," Edd replied, perhaps a little more courteously than a man of the Watch might usually respond to such a request - he too had likely noticed the pallor of Sansa's face and the tense set of her shoulders. "We'll get more wood for the Princess' fire as well. Follow me, milady."

Sansa and her entourage bowed and left the room, and when Jon turned to confer worriedly with Tormund, Stannis took the opportunity to seethe quietly to his hand: "Davos, if it comes down to it, I may rip the rabid pup's head from his body with my bare hands."

"Aye, milord. You may have to race Lord Stark for the privilege, but may the gods carry you and light your path."


	12. Therapeutic Confrontations

Sansa sat by the fire in the Princess' chambers, hardly feeling the warmth – but she couldn't tell if it was the chill of Castle Black, or the cold block of ice that had lodged in her stomach since the arrival of the Winterfell raven. She had done a rather good job at distancing herself from the horrors at Ramsey's hands in the adrenaline of escape and the subsequent distraction of joining and travelling with the Baratheon forces, focussing on orienting herself with the King and getting to Jon - but the dark, cold quiet of Castle Black now did nothing to drown out the flashes of memory. She set aside the cloak she was stitching for Jon, temporarily abandoning herself to her mood. Shireen looked up from her book, smiling curiously, and Sansa smiled back. "My fingers are a little sore," she fibbed. "Just taking a little break."

Shireen wrinkled her nose. "You lasted longer than I ever have. I have no real talent for it, to be honest."

Sansa smiled again but offered nothing else, unsure she would be able to maintain a conversation. Luckily, Shireen was perfectly happy to slip back into the book she'd pilfered from the Castle Black library. The King had asked her to help the Princess pack up, but much like her father, Shireen was not the sort to have trunks of satins or frivolities to haul around wherever she went, and Sansa had found her single trunk neatly packed and ready to go at any moment. Clearly her father's daughter, though more content to sit with a nose in a book than pace restlessly. Sansa suspected the King had made his request as a pretense to let her leave his offices more than anything else, and she might be inclined to take it as a slight if she were not aware that she had been shaken by Ramsey's letter. His Grace was an observant man; she just hoped she hadn't come off somehow as weak or overemotional. She liked that he listened to her counsel, and hoped her involuntary reaction hadn't sabotaged that dynamic permanently – she had no wish to be permanently placed aside as they set out to rally the bannermen.

She felt a sudden phantom press of a blade down her arm and shuddered, closed her eyes, rubbed the area, tried to erase the sensation with the warmth of her own hand. No, she would be an active participant in taking back her home, no matter what. She wouldn't allow otherwise.

A knock at the door brought her from her thoughts. "Yes?"

Brienne entered holding a scroll, a thundercloud upon her face. "For you, my lady." Glancing down, Sansa looked down to see the seal of the mockingbird in the wax. Littlefinger. Well. She plucked the letter from Brienne and unwrapped it without ceremony. She scanned the words, cocked a brow. "How far is Mole's Town?"

"Not far, milady, the first village south on the King's Road. Half a league."

Sansa deliberated over the note, engaging in a short and vicious debate with herself. She was not eager to leave the Castle on her own, not even with Brienne as a guard, and the hell she was going to come to heel when Littlefinger beckoned, sneaking around and engaging in his clever little machinations like nothing had happened. He could come to _her._

However, she was conscious of the King's desire to keep his whereabouts as quiet as possible, and Littlefinger trafficked in exactly that kind of information. She didn't necessarily consider Baelish an overt threat to the King, but she did not trust him, either. A few of the King's men seen around the courtyard might not raise an eyebrow – a few deserters with no good prospects could have retreated to the Wall – but Baelish seeing the King himself posed a risk.

But the King had kept to his tower since his arrival, going over strategies with her brother and his Hand. She'd barely seen him and her rooms were only a couple floors away. She bit her lip.

She moved to the desk, scratched a quick reply, and handed it back to her knight. "Please send this back," she requested, then paused. "If he comes, we'll meet him in the Shieldhall." The likelihood he'd see Stannis in that more abandoned section of the castle was practically non-existent.

"Yes, milady," Brienne nodded, ducking out the door.

Sansa met Shireen's inquisitive look with a calm she didn't necessarily feel. "I may receive a visitor, Your Grace. He requested I meet him in town, but I would prefer not leave the safety of Castle Black."

How very unfortunate for Lord Baelish that he showed up just when she was feeling so very unsettled, she thought, grim, picking up Jon's cloak again, and viciously stabbing her needle through the fur.

* * *

Stannis ducked back into the shadows of the upper walks. _What in the seven hells was Baelish doing here? _ He watched as the man made his way across the courtyard towards the buildings across from the King's Tower, that housed more common rooms of the Watch. _Sansa. He's here for Sansa._ The lady had mentioned the scheming flesh-peddler enough in her recounting of her tale, and mentioned him in their conversations as a source of her knowledge, that he knew the man had had an outsized interest in her - getting her out of King's Landing, arranging her marriage to Ramsey, though he was unsure how much of the latter boiled down to a sale, and how much was the man's penchant for puppeteering. Stannis began to follow the man's movement across the grounds, sticking to the shadows - he instinctually felt like hiding his presence from the man was the smartest course of action, but also felt a driving need to investigate what he was up to. Was he here to try and return Lady Sansa to Winterfell? To check on her after her escape?

He felt a sharp stab at the possibility that Sansa had contacted Littlefinger herself, that she was somehow secretly in league with him, and his face settled into a grimace, picking up the pace.

He arrived to the main building to see Baelish be escorted into the Shieldhall, and lightly made his way to the door. He quietly dismissed the Watchman who had delivered the man inside, gesturing for him to remain quiet and not greet him as he approached.

Eavesdropping was not a particularly kingly pursuit, he would admit, and he felt a godsdamned fool - but Baelish was the kind of man for whom it would be most wise to take an opportunity to observe when he didn't know you were listening. And considering his recent weakness with the Red Woman, it might be prudent to take the same measure of the Lady Sansa and her relationship to this man. He took a quick peer inside the room, catching sight of Lady Sansa's bright hair against the dark stone as Baelish crossed the cavernous room, and he quickly positioned himself on the far side of the door, out of sight.

"Sansa. Lady Brienne," Baelish greeted, his voice soothing, ingratiating. "When I heard you had escaped Winterfell, I feared the worst. I can understand not wanting to come meet me, it was wise to stay here within the walls of the castle. You have no idea how happy I am to see you unharmed."

Sansa's voice, in response was as cold and hard as the wall of ice that rose up behind the castle. "'Unharmed?' What are you _doing_ here?"

"I rode north with the Knights of the Vale to come to your aid. They're encamped at Moat Cailin as we speak." Stannis' eyebrow quirked, noting the resource.

Sansa was less impressed, a cold burst of laughter escaping from her. "To come to my _aid_? Did you _know_ about Ramsay? If you didn't know, you're an idiot. If you did know, you're my _enemy_. Would you like to hear about our wedding night, Lord Baelish?" Littlefinger seemed stunned and unsure, and Sansa continued with malice. "He never hurt my face. He _needed_ my face, the face of Ned Stark's daughter. But the _rest _of me, oh - he did what he liked with the rest of me as long as I could still give him an heir. What do you think he did, Lord Baelish?"

"I can't begin to contemplate—"

"What do you think he _did _to me?" She interrupted, stunning Baelish quiet.

"Lady Sansa asked you a question," Brienne prompted into the tense silence, disdain dripped from every word.

Baelish sounded increasingly uncertain. "He… beat you."

"Yes, he enjoyed that," Sansa briskly responded. "What else do you think he did?"

"Sansa, I—"

"What _else_?"

"… Did he… cut… you?"

A cold satisfaction rang in her voice. "Maybe you _did_ know about Ramsay all along."

"I didn't know." Baelish's tone began to sound horrified, and desperate.

"I thought you knew everyone's secrets."

"I made a mistake, a _horrible _mistake. I underestimated a stranger."

"The other things he did, ladies aren't supposed to talk about those things, but I imagine brothel keepers talk about them all the time. I can still _feel_ it, you know. And I don't mean in that my tender heart it still pains me so," she bit out, caustic. "I mean I can still feel what he did in my body standing here, _right now_." Stannis briefly closed his eyes.

"I'm so sorry." Baelish, to his credit, sounded as genuinely regretful as Stannis felt.

Sansa, however, was unmoved. "You said you would _protect_ me."

"And I _will_. You must believe me when I tell you that I will."

"I _don't_ believe you anymore. And I don't _need_ you anymore. You can't protect me. You wouldn't even be able to protect yourself if I tell Brienne to cut you down. And why shouldn't I?" Stannis wondered briefly if that precise, chilly tone was something Northern women practiced, or if it came naturally.

"Do you want me to beg for my life? If that's what you want, I will. Whatever you ask that is in my power, I will do."

"What if I want you to die here and now?"

"Then I will die." Stannis considered this: whether it was honest or a gambit, it was interesting that Baelish was moved to the point of that offer.

"You freed me from the monsters who murdered my family and you gave me to other monsters who murdered my family." Sansa's voice echoed through the great hall with the confidence and authority of a queen passing sentence. "Go back to Moat Cailin. I never want to see you again. My brother and I will take back the North on our own."

Baelish was quiet for a moment. "I would do anything to undo what's been done to you. I know that I can't. But will you allow me to say one more thing before I go? The Blackfish has gathered what remains of the Tully forces and retaken Riverrun. You might consider seeking him out. The time may come when you need an army loyal to you."

"I _have_ an army."

"Your _brother's_ army. _Half_-brother."

Sansa, to her credit, kept her cards to her chest. "You may keep your advice, Lord Baelish. Words are cheap, particularly yours; I find myself much more impressed by action these days. You say you're sorry, that you're my ally. I will believe it when its proven to me and not a moment before. Good day, Lord Baelish. Please see yourself out."

Stannis ducked backwards and into a dark corner, as Baelish made his exit, his face seemingly reflecting both a true distress and also – per his default state – a scheme in its formation.

"How do you feel, my lady?" Stannis heard Brienne inquire a few minutes later, as the women made their own way to the door.

"Much better, actually, Lady Brienne," was Sansa's cool answer, as she marched through the entryway and back towards the King's Tower. "We need to tell His Grace about the Blackfish," she continued, her voice trailing off the farther she got. "The Knights of the Vale as well, I suppose, but I think we can both agree that Baelish's promises are worth very little."

**Chapter End Notes**

_I debated a bit about Sansa going to meet Baelish outside the castle to protect Stannis' charade, but couldn't think of a good way to get him out of the castle to hear her dress Baelish down (which I really really wanted!), so I split the difference. I also liked the idea that she'd feel secure enough in her alliance at this point that she wouldn't feel afraid to make Baelish jump through hoops, nor would she feel the need to be sneaky with a king who had clearly demonstrated that he valued her input._


	13. Family, Duty, Honour

The king had not been in his solar when she'd returned to the King's Tower and Sansa forced herself to return to Shireen's company and find a productive use for her nervous energy, working on finishing Jon's cloak until His Grace returned. She felt much lighter and steadier than she had; the satisfaction of confronting Baelish like draining a festering infection from a wound. She still hurt, still had healing to do, but the poison of betrayal had been sucked out. And she was eager to move on to the next step – ejecting Ramsey from her home, and perhaps having Ghost go for his neck.

"Did you have a nice visit with your guest?" Shireen inquired innocently.

"Not really," Sansa replied, wry, as she examined her needlework. "He was a friend of my mother's, but ultimately he's a very self-centered man." She met Shireen's eyes over the cloak. "But he may have had information that could help your father, so I think it was worth meeting with him."

"Oh, that's good then," Shireen agreed. "I'm glad Father found you, you know. I think he was having trouble navigating the North – the snowstorm we were caught in was just awful, I don't think he'd ever experienced anything quite like that. I think he enjoyed the wildfire fight at Blackwater more than that night." Shireen made a face. "He always said he preferred the warm rains of Storm's End to the cold of Dragonstone, but snow might be his least favourite of all, now."

"The snow can be very unpleasant if you're not used to it. Winterfell has a hot spring, though, and pipes that carry its warmth through the castle during the winter, so it's not quite as cold and drafty as it is here and elsewhere. My mother was from the Riverlands, and said she was very grateful for it, during her first winter."

Shireen perked up. "Oh, I do hope we take it quickly then," and the two giggled a little. "My father likes you, you know."

Sansa blinked. "He does?" To her, the King was polite, respectful, but also erred on the curt side, if not veering into outright grumpy.

"Oh, yes. You and your brother, I can tell."

"How so?" Sansa asked, curious.

Shireen's smile took on a mischievous quirk. "Well, with Father, it's far easier to tell who he _doesn't_ like. He doesn't hide _that_ well at all."

Sansa giggled a little, and then looked up at the knock on the door. Davos smiled in at them. "Begging your pardon for my interruption, ladies. Lady Sansa, His Grace has returned, if you want to speak with him."

"Oh, yes, thank you, Davos." She folded up Jon's cloak, just finished. "Could you fetch Brienne and Jon from downstairs as well?"

"Enter," came the brisk response to her knock, and Sansa entered the room to see Stannis pouring over maps, as he was wont to do.

"Excuse me, your Grace, I have some news," she curtsied, as Davos circled around her to stand with the king.

"News?" he asked, as curt as usual, but he quickly glanced at her face and then away again, though, flushing a little and looking uncomfortable, almost … embarrassed? It was a little strange, and it made her pause a moment. But when Jon and Brienne entered behind her, she felt the need to continue.

"Yes, I've had a visitor this afternoon, Lord Baelish contacted me and I received him in the Sheildhall."

"Baelish?" Jon scowled. "What did _he_ want?"

"To offer me an army," she responded, voice as dry as a Dornish day. "He says he's brought the Knights of the Vale to aid my cause, that they are garrisoned at Moat Cailin awaiting my beck and call."

Jon looked impressed, and Davos pleased, but Sansa focused on Stannis, who regarded her cryptically. "And you think not much of this offer, Lady Sansa." It was a statement, not a question.

"I don't think Lord Baelish is your enemy, Your Grace, but he's a man you can trust only when you are absolutely sure his own interests align with yours, and that is very difficult to know. He is someone who likes to back a winning side, but that loyalty lasts only as long as the next move. He may be earnest in his desire to support me for now, or he may only want me to_ think_ he supports me. The Arryns_ are_ cousins by marriage and longtime friends of House Stark, but the new Lord Arryn is very young and … erratic. As guardian of Lord Arryn, Baelish does lead the forces of the Vale, but whether they'll actually come to our aid… we'll only know when they get here and don't ride for Ramsey."

Stannis nodded slowly. "I see."

"More importantly," Sansa continued. "He brought us news of my uncle, Brynden Tully."

"The Blackfish?" Davos inquired, delighted.

"You've heard of him?" Jon asked, smiling.

"Oh, aye," Davos chuckled. "Men with reputations like the Blackfish get their tales told far and wide, even in Flea Bottom."

"According to Baelish, the Blackfish has re-taken Riverrun from the Freys with what remains of the Tully forces."

Stannis' mouth pulled to the side in a ghost of half-smile. "I admire the man's nerve, but I don't think the Lannisters are likely to allow that to go on for long."

"Your Grace, I don't wish you to expend your resources verifying Lord Baelish's information. It's obviously more important to focus on preparing your troops and rallying support from the Northmen, but I'd like to send Brienne and Podrick to Riverrun to try to recruit my uncle to our cause."

"Lady Sansa! I cannot leave you here unprotected!" Brienne protested.

"I am not unprotected, Lady Brienne. I will have Jon with me as we tour the north, and that large Wildling man."

Jon frowned. "To be honest, Sansa, I thought you'd be going with the Princess Shireen to Bear Island."

"Nonsense," Sansa dismissed the idea out of hand. "If the plan is to keep the King's presence as quiet as possible, we can't recruit the houses of the North with his name – word will get back to Ramsey. The houses won't know you're a legitimized bastard, so you'll have more success with me at your side, a trueborn daughter supporting your claim. We'll only tell the lords about His Grace once they've committed their aid, when we know who is true and loyal." She turned back to Stannis. "And I will write a note for Brienne to carry to Uncle Brynden, but will not mention you in it in case it's intercepted. She and Podrick will give him that information him directly, when they deem it safe to do so."

He glanced down at the map. "The Riverlands are a ways away, Lady Sansa. Even if Lady Brienne is successful, they might not make it back in time to join us at Winterfell."

"I know, but the Blackfish is too important a strategist in both this battle and the wars to come to not try, and the more men we have against wights and Lannisters, the better. And I think he may come; he's a Tully, and there's not much family left for him to defend."

"You're not wrong, there." Stannis looked from her to Brienne. "You swear on your honour, and on the Lady Sansa's life, that you'll tell no one but the Blackfish of my forces in Bear Pass?"

Brienne scowled, the very question an insult. "Of course, my lord. I swear it."

"Alright then, I'll allow it." Stannis straightened, flicking his eyes over Sansa again with an inscrutable expression. "Everyone rest tonight. We've dallied here long enough. We head out on the morrow."


	14. Divide and Conquer

"You've changed so much, you know," Jon mused to Sansa.

They'd parted ways with Stannis, Davos and their men at the road to Queenscrown, the other party opting to backtrack down the lesser-travelled trail back to Bear Pass instead of travelling along the King's Road. Sansa rode between Jon and Tormund, making good time before their first stop, the Wildling encampment. Brienne and Podrick had left earlier than all of them, still in the cover of dark, hoping to get down to Riverrun as soon as possible. Tormund had grumbled a little about a lost opportunity to flirt, but had recovered his usual charm, whistling under his breath as they made their way. Ghost, meanwhile, trotted along happily beside them, snapping at the snow and bounding about like a very large puppy.

"I suppose I have," Sansa agreed. "But I'm still me. Look at that stunning new cloak I've made you," she teased. "A perfect vision of the Lord of Winterfell."

Jon blushed, running a hand over the soft fur and Stark sigil marked in the leather. "Still feels a bit strange, to be honest." She pretended mock outrage, and he laughed. "Not the cloak, Sansa, it's made beautifully, it's just… bein' a Stark, now, and not a Snow."

"I know," she said, softly. "But really, you've always been a Stark, Jon. It's everyone else that needs to adjust."

He smiled at her. "That's kind of you to say. But I need to adjust, too - to you! Lady Sansa Stark, trusted advisor to King Stannis Baratheon himself," he teased.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Sansa rolled her eyes.

"I'm serious!" Jon protested.

She waved a hand at him. "You exaggerate. Stannis is just a man who doesn't waste resources, and needs help dealing with the North. He's hardly going to install me on his small council in King's Landing." She smiled. "I'll admit I do like that he listens when I speak, though. In all my childhood dreams I imagined myself spending my time dancing with lords at the ball, but never talking with them at the high table, that any of them would want to listen to my opinions." She frowned. "It's rather sad, in retrospect. I loved Mother dearly, but sewing, singing, dancing, poetry… perhaps I should have been encouraged to do a bit more. Actually, maybe that's not fair," she amended herself, "perhaps I was just hitting an age where Mother would have started tutoring me in such things when I left Winterfell, or perhaps that was a reason she allowed me to go south in the first place, to learn more." Sansa sent a rueful smile to Jon. "In any case, Princess Shireen is more serious and broadly-read than I was at her age, that's for certain. She spent most of her time poring over the military histories of the Watch the whole time I was with her."

Jon laughed. "Ah, well, maybe that the key to what helped you gain the King's ear so quickly – he raised a serious, smart daughter of his own, he's used to -" Tormund snorted derisively from the left, catching their attention. "What?" Jon asked.

"I'd say it's not the king's _ear_ that she's got, so much as his _eye_." Tormund wiggled his eyebrows with such gleeful and suggestive innuendo that Sansa couldn't help a bark of laughter alongside Jon's hoot.

"Funny, Tormund," Jon chuckled.

"What? I only speak truth!" Tormund dropped his voice conspiratorially, winking at her. "People as beautiful as us, Sansa, kissed by fire – we outshine all others. They are faded and common next to our burning light. It is impossible to resist us." Tormund leaned forward to address Jon. "Don't you recall that man's miserable, dour wife? A man who lived with that kind of woman for so long could not help but notice a girl such as your sister. For such a man to resist you, he would be_ dead _inside," he informed Sansa, nodding firmly.

Sansa was not a stranger to male attention, positive and negative – but considering Stannis' treatment of her could not be farther than Littlefinger's, or even Sandor's, she found herself wholly amused by Tormund's proclamation. "The King perhaps likes me as much as he likes anyone," she allowed, thinking of her conversation with Shireen. "But he's very recently widowed, and he's never… flirted. I've had men express interest in me before, Tormund. It doesn't feel like that."

"Fine, don't listen to me. We'll see who is right in the end, and who has the last laugh." Tormund nodded, very sure of himself.

Sansa was too busy laughing at his dramatics and shaking her head to notice the slow, dawning awareness blooming across Jon's face.

* * *

"A pity that the Lady Sansa can't keep Shireen company on Bear Island," Davos remarked, tone carefully neutral, keeping his eyes on the treeline. "They seemed to be getting along very well these past couple of days."

"Yes, well, Lady Sansa's logic was unimpeachable," Stannis grumbled. "These Northerners are an obstinate lot, and convincing them to fall in line will take all the Starks we have. She has every right to participate in liberating her home. She feels it's her duty; I must respect that." He'd also felt overwhelmingly guilty about eavesdropping on her when she'd proved so honest and aboveboard, but he wasn't quite ready to confess to his Hand that he'd acted so dishonourably, not just yet. "And she's in her brother's care now, so it was ultimately out of my hands anyhow."

"Mmm, I suppose," Davos nodded. They travelled along the path in silence for a while before he spoke again, aggressively mild. "A fortunate turn of events, wasn't it, finding her?"

"It's very fortunate the last remaining Stark is not an abject fool, yes."

"Aye, rather canny she is, that girl." Davos waited a few more beats, darting his eyes to the side, before continuing conversationally, "I don't think realized the extent of connections the Starks had through their mother. Catelyn Stark was from the Riverlands, wasn't she? But Lady Sansa also mentioned relations to the Vale."

Stannis cast a sidelong glance back at him. "Catelyn's sister married John Arryn of the Vale, and produced the current Lord Arryn, the boy."

"A Stark who's both niece to Lord Tully and cousin to Lord Arryn, then? Hoster Tully arranged his daughters' marriages well, didn't he?"

"Yes," Stannis responded, shortly. "Quite."

Davos raised his eyebrows and, knowing he was pressing his luck, fell silent for some time before delicately testing the waters again. "Lord Stark and his sister don't favour each other much, do they?"

"Lord Stark favours the family they share. Lady Sansa favours her mother's people."

"That red hair, I imagine." Davos waited a beat. "An altogether lovely girl, isn't she?"

"Yes, it's somewhat a miracle that Ned Stark fathered her." Stannis gave in and sent an irritated look at his Hand. "For a happily married man, you're talking an awful lot about a girl young enough to be your daughter, Davos."

Davos raised his shortened hand in protest. "I'm just making conversation on these long and winding roads, Your Grace. And married men don't just go _blind_ and lose the ability to appreciate a face as fair as that one, you know that."

"She's practically Shireen's age," Stannis spit.

"Ach, now, I wouldn't go so far to say that," Davos replied, mild again. "Lady Sansa's already been married twice, and Shireen's years from that."

"I hardly think Lady Sansa's marriages can be considered typical in any way."

"Well, no, you're right there," Davos frowned. "A tragic case, a young girl like her, falling into the hands of the likes of the Lannisters and Boltons like that. A right shame all around."

"That's what happens when fathers manage to lose their heads before they can make good marriages for their daughters," Stannis replied, impatient. "I must endeavour to keep my own and save Shireen from such a fate. Are we done gossiping like biddies, Davos?"

"Aye, Your Grace," Davos replied, the picture of innocence - save a knowing twinkle in his eye. "Of course."

Stannis was very glad that he'd never mentioned the business of riding back to camp with the girl to Davos, nor carrying Lady Sansa to her tent. The man would be absolutely insufferable.

**Chapter End Notes**

_Tormund and Davos know what's up. (You still know nothing, Jon Snow.)_


	15. Stubborn Mules

Brienne chased after the Blackfish, urgency propelling her every step. She didn't want to fail the Starks, again, and she did not want it to come down to fighting Jaime, if she could help it.

"I've said no three times already." The Blackfish stormed down the hallway, waving a hand dismissively.

Brienne repeated, firmly, "I have a signed letter from your niece Sansa Stark."

"I haven't seen Sansa since she was a child. I don't know her signature. I don't know _you_. And I will _not _surrender." He paused to glance over the wall, barked at the men along it. "Double the guards tonight! The Kingslayer wants to try us. I can _feel_ it."

Brienne and Podrick hustled to keep up as the Blackfish took giant strides down a staircase to the main level. "As I have said, my name is—"

"Yes, Brienne of Tarth. I know your father. Good man."

"He always spoke highly of you."

"And if he were here now, I'd tell him the same I'm telling you. If you think I'm abandoning my family's seat on the Kingslayer's word of honor, you're a bloody fool."

"Riverrun cannot stand against the Lannisters and the Freys."

"We can stand longer than your one-handed friend _thinks_ we can."

"He's not my friend."

Brynden stopped suddenly, wheeled to face her, squinting sarcastically. "No? Who gave you permission to cross the siege line and enter the castle? Who gave you that sword with the gold lion on the pommel?"

At the end of her rope, Brienne grit her teeth and enunciated very clearly. "Ser Jaime kept his word to your niece Catelyn Stark. He sent me to find Sansa, to help her as Catelyn wished. He gave me this sword to protect her. _That is what I have done_ and what _I will continue to do _until_ the day. I. die."_ She shoved the letter at him, one last insistent attempt.

Surprised, Tully took the time to size her up, to size Podrick up, finally relented and took the letter. A small smile ghosted at his lips as he read through, and he let out a quiet, affectionate chuckle. "She's _exactly_ like her mother." He looked up, quirked a thoughtful eyebrow at her. "I don't have enough men to help her take Winterfell."

Brienne and Podrick smiled in relieved unison. Taking a quick glance around to make sure none of surrounding men were within earshot, Brienne lowered her voice. "Your men will not be alone. She did not want to commit it to scroll, should it be intercepted, but Lady Sansa has allied with Stannis Baratheon. His forces are garrisoned in secret in Bear's Pass, protected by House Mormont. As I left, Lady Sansa and her brother – who Stannis has promised to legitimize to secure Winterfell for House Stark - were heading out to raise the banners of other loyal Northmen, and the leader of the Wilding believes he can get two thousand of his people as well."

Brynden blinked, taking the information in. "Wildlings? _Wildlings_ fighting for Winterfell?"

"It's a rather long story, Ser Brynden, but the Bolton bastard who holds Winterfell – the one Lady Sansa was forced to marry – is a vicious man. He poses a threat to the Wildlings who have taken refuge south of the Wall, as well as Lady Sansa and the North at large."

The Blackfish frowned. "How vicious?"

Brienne stared directly in the eye. "Very. But beyond him, there is further trouble north of the wall, trouble worse than any Lannister or Bolton threat. Lady Sansa convinced Stannis to send me here for you not just because you are her family, but because you will be _sorely_ needed, now and in future."

The Blackfish was quiet, reread the letter in his hands, and appeared to waver, shaking his head. "I'm sorry Lady Brienne. I wish that I could trust that Jaime Lannister would let the Tully forces leave. But I don't trust him, and as much as Winterfell is Sansa's home, Riverrun is_ mine_. And if Jaime Lannister wants it, he can bloody well take it the way everyone else does." He nodded at her, almost apologetically, before marching off to yell at more of his men.

In a perfect mirror only hours later, The Blackfish hustled behind Brienne and Podrick as they bolted down the stairwell to a riverboat escape.

"Come with us." The Blackfish shook his head. "Your family is in the North. They need. Don't die for pride when you can fight for your blood."

"You'll serve Sansa far better than I ever could." The Blackfish grumped, shooing them into the boat as they heard guards clanking behind them, obeying the orders of Lord Tully to find his uncle. _"All the way down! Check that out!"_

"Go on, now. I haven't had a proper sword fight in years. I expect I'll make a damn fool of myself," he muttered, to himself.

Brienne, desperate, grabbed his arm one final time, made direct eye contact. "_Ser Brynden_. This fight is lost, for now, but you can come with us. Winterfell is held by a madman, and the army of the dead marches on the realm from above the wall." She gritted her teeth and enunciated. "_You are_ _still needed_."

The Blackfish stared back at her, then back at the commotion up the stairs, then nodded his head, joining them in the boat. "Fine. Robert's Rebellion was a damned good fight. Might as well join Stannis' Siege, eh?"

**Chapter End Notes**

_THAT'S RIGHT MOTHERF*CKERS I'M SAVING THE BLACKFISH *does a victory lap*_


	16. Gauntlets

"According to Davos' raven, this should be the place." Jon surveyed the area. "Good place for our people to set camp. Those mountains are a natural fortification. There's a stream down there for the horses. Good eye, the King has. The snowstorm and Ramsey's tricks set him back, but this wasn't a bad place to settle. Our people will likely fare just fine here, knowing to keep an eye out for his tricks."

"Our people. Two thousand wildlings, two hundred Cerwyns, two hundred Hornwoods, one-hundred-forty-three Mazins, and sixty-two Mormonts," Sansa mused, taking a look around.

"_Six hundred and twenty _Mormonts, Sansa." Jon smiled. "Each of them worth_ ten_."

Sansa returned his humour with her eyes, but returned to her thoughts. "It's not as many as I would have liked, or expected. Who would have thought it easier to convince two thousand wildlings to fight for Winterfell, then House Glover? Imagine what Father would think of this."

"If he knew Stannis was with us, Glover might have supported our efforts. He did have heavy losses under Robb's campaigns," Jon allowed, but Sansa shook her head.

"I'm glad we didn't tell anyone about the King until they first swore their oaths to House Stark. Now we know who is truly loyal, who can be counted on when we have nothing." Sansa firmed her mouth. "And we will remember."

Jon nodded, looking around, surveying the crowd himself. "I think we have decent numbers here, with what we've gathered. We might be able to take House Bolton on our own, if some great misfortune happened to befall the King's men. But I like our chances more with them. " He dismounted. "We get set up here and break to meet Stannis and Lady Mormont at dawn."

"Yes," Tormund drawled airily, trotting past. "Sansa mustn't keep the King _waiting._" Jon sent him an exasperated look.

Stannis shifted in his seat. He thought he heard a crack down the path, but no one emerged.

Davos eyed him, incongruously merry. "Impatient, Your Grace?"

Stannis scowled. "I feel like I've been marching on Winterfell for months. I want to get on with it."

"Naturally, milord, " Davos agreed, pleasantly congenial.

"And this garb is uncomfortable," Stannis grumped, pulling a bit at his neck. Lady Mormont slid her gaze to him, silent, but a little annoyed. He'd been gratified to find his men secure under the support of their Northern hosts, and the Mormonts had been amenable to escort his daughter safely to Bear Island. All scouts had reported back that the North appeared under the impression his army had disbanded. He didn't trust it completely, and wanted to march on Winterfell before that luck ran out. If only the Starks would get here, they could get to the parlay with Bolton, and get on with it.

"Of course, Your Grace."

Stannis scowled at his Hand, but knew it was illogical to snap at him for being… agreeable. Before he could think of an appropriate reply, a commotion down the road drew his attention. Lord Stark, Lady Sansa, Giantsbane and a small cadre of men broke from the trees via a path in the distance and briskly kicked into a faster pace to meet them.

"Your Grace," Jon bowed his head, and Sansa followed suit, her bright hair and fair skin glowing in the sun. Stannis quickly looked away to the other side of Jon, where Giantsbane merely eyed him and bounced his eyebrows. It wasn't fealty by any stretch, but Stannis was prepared to accept it as the closest thing to a concession he was likely to get from the Wildling contingent, for now. "I didn't recognize you from a distance, milord."

"Yes, well, I want to join to you when you go to parlay with Bolton" Stannis explained, looking down at the House Mormont garb he wore. "You will speak with him, Lord Stark, but I want to take measure of the whelp with my own eyes." He gestured to the helmet in his hand. "I should be able to go unnoticed. I've never met Bolton or his men, and reports confirm the ruse appears successful, for now. You were successful in raising the banners?"

"Houses Cerwyn, Mazin, and Hornwood answered the call, Your Grace," Sansa answered. "Along with the Wildlings and the Mormonts, our numbers are at around twenty-six hundred."

Stannis smiled in dark satisfaction, beginning to feel the thrum of anticipation begin to race under his skin, the call to battle beginning to build in his blood. "Excellent." The numbers were good, and after the failed attack at Blackwater, and the subsequent delays in his northern campaign, he was _ready _for this fight. With a smooth switch of grip, he placed the helmet on his head. "Then let's not keep Lord Bolton waiting, House Stark."

The leadership party reached the outskirts of Winterfell, and awaited the Bolton delegation, bearing down on them from the castle.

From his position by Lady Mormont, Stannis overheard Jon murmur to his sister. "You don't have to be here."

"Yes, I do," came the cold, firm response. Sansa sat ramrod straight, tension clear in her shoulders, staring at the oncoming horsemen as they slowed and stopped.

Ramsey's eyes raked over Sansa's form. "My _beloved_ wife. I've missed you _terribly_." The smug Bolton bastard made Stannis' blood heat from simmer to boil with one sentence. "Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely, Snow. Now, dismount and kneel before me, surrender your army and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night's Watch. I will pardon these treasonous lords for betraying my house." Bolton smirked. "Come, bastard, you don't have the men, you don't have the horses, and you don't have Winterfell. Why lead those pour souls into slaughter? There's no need for a battle. Get off your hose and _kneel_. I'm a man of _mercy_."

Jon, to his credit, managed to keep his tone mild in the face of Bolton's provocation. "You're right. There's no need for a battle. Thousands of men don't need to die. Only one of us. Let's end this the old way. You against me."

Chuckling, Bolton shook his head. "I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in the North talk about you, you're the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good. Maybe not. I don't know if I'd beat you. But I know that my army will beat yours. I have six thousand men. You have, what, half that? Not even?

Jon nodded, considering. "Aye, you have the numbers. Will your men want to fight for you when they hear you wouldn't fight for them?"

Ramsey paused, a little taken aback, then pointed gleefully, madness alighting his eye as he spoke to Sansa. "He's good. Very good." His smile melted into a sinister grimace. "Tell me, will you let your little brother die because you're too proud to surrender?"

"And how do we know you have him?" Sansa responded, voice sheeted in ice.

Ramsay's mouth twisted unpleasantly, and at his signal, his man carelessly tossed the head of a black direwolf between them. Jon and Sansa both froze, staring at it, and from beside Lady Mormont, Ghost let out a deep and ominous growl. Undeterred, Ramsey let loose with a gleeful smile. "Now, if you want to save —"

"You're going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton." Sansa cut him off, pulling her eyes from Shaggydog's head, and looking him directly in the eye. "Sleep well." Sansa turned her horse and rode away.

Stannis watched her depart briefly, before turning his attention to the smirking face of the Bolton, who watched her with a possessive fire that had Stannis' hand twitching for his sword before he could control it. "She's a fine woman, your sister. I look forward to having her back in my bed." A mad smile stretched across his face. "And you're all fine-looking men. My dogs are desperate to meet you. I haven't fed them for seven days. They're_ ravenous_. I wonder which parts they'll try first. Your eyes? Your balls? We'll find out soon enough. In the morning, then, bastard." With a cheery salute, Bolton turned his mount and rode back to Winterfell, men in tow.

Davos finally risked a glace over his shoulder towards the King, and quirked a brow, as if sensing that Stannis' Baratheon blood had settled into a hot flow of molten steel. Stannis nodded, curt. He'd seen all he needed to, and on the morrow, Bolton would lose his head.

**Chapter Notes**

_This story is originally posted on Ao3 (Archive of Our Own) and there's some pictures for this chapter there; I'm already having enough trouble with formatting here that it might be some time before I manage to get them up on this version. (All 27 published chapters are up there, as well, though I hope to get everything up here shortly.) _


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